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WITH 

Biographical  Sketches 


This  is  life:  the  Shadow  of  Death  always 
overhangs,  but  earnest  souls  who  love  and 
live^the  Truth  do  conquer  death. 

Bishop  Vincent 


PRINTED 

FOR  PRIVATE  CIRCULATION 

SAN  DIEGO, 

1914 


ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 

Copyrighted   by   Mabel   F.   Hastings 

1914 


TWENTIETH    CENTURY    PRESS 

PRINTERS 
SAN    DIEGO,  CAL. 


9G9270 


tljai  Ollfotr  of 

Carlotta,  Isabella,  Eugenie  and  Eloise  Mabury, 

acknowledgement  of  their  helpfulness  in 

the  making  of  this  book* 

M.  F.  H. 


To 

j^aralj  ©row 

In  Remembrance  of  a  gracious  Friendship 

in  age,  in  youth,  through 

sixty  years 


Biographical  5  £  e  /  c  /z  e  s 


If  we  could  but  keep  our  hearts  pure  this  day, 
untainted  by  the  many  pettinesses,  untouched 
by  the  things  the  world  deems  important,  undi 
verted  by  the  fictitious  values  and  standards 
set  up  by  various  sections  of  mankind;  who 
knows  what  vision  —  aye  of  Infinity  itself — 
might  be  vouchsafed  to  us. 

Richard  Wagner. 


1890 


10 


Mary    Field 


Biographical  Sketch  by  Mabel  Field  Hastings 


Mrs.  Mary  Field  was  born  in  1833  in  Niles,  Michigan, 
when  a  few  small  settlements  broke  the  wilderness  between 
there  and  Detroit,  nearly  two  hundred  miles  away.  Her 
father,  Nathaniel  Bacon,  then  a  studious  young  attorney, 
was  later  one  of  the  first  judges  of  the  supreme  court  of 
Michigan.  Her  mother  was  of  Scotch  descent,  and  though 
she  had  grown  up  in  her  grandfather's  luxurious  home  in 
New  York,  she  was  radiant  with  enthusiasm  over  the  life 
of  that  far  West.  Mrs.  Field  (little  Mary  Hannah  Bacon) 
was  born  in  a  log  cabin,  the  first  white  child  christened  in 
southwestern  Michigan. 

Her  maternal  grandfather,  Joseph  Sweetman,  a  Scotch 
Presbyterian  minister,  was  called  to  the  Fifth  Avenue 
"Brick  Church"  of  New  York  City,  but  he  declined  the  call 
choosing  "the  simple  life"  in  Charlton,  New  York.  Mrs. 
Field's  great-grandfather  was  Judge  Edward  Savage:  on 
his  old  slate  tombstone  in  New  York  the  record  is  that  he 
was  for  twenty-one  years  a  member  of  the  New  York  legis 
lature,  for  forty  years  an  elder  in  the  Presbyterian  church. 
His  father  was  Captain  John  Savage,,  an  adventurous  sea 
captain  and  stanch  patriot  who  served  in  the  French  and 
Indian  wars.  Though  long  wounded  and  going  with  a 
crutch,  he  led  his  men  at  the  storming  of  Ticonderoga. 
Mrs.  Field's  paternal  grandmother  was  an  ardent  student, 
who  in  her  youth,  when  the  printed  page  was  rare,  walked 


11 


Biographical 


thirty-nine  miles,  or  thereabouts,  to  borrow  and  return  a 
bound  vclume  of  Addison's  Spectator  which  she  fairly 
learned  by  heart. 

Little  Mary  was  left  motherless  in  her  seventh  year. 
Then  came  to  mother  the  children,  this  grandmother  whose 
strong  character  and  intellectual  fire  left  its  potent  impress 
throughout  their  lives.  Mary  was  educated  almost  intirely 
at  home.  At  the  age  of  four  she  could  read  well  in  the 
Testament — and  was  ever  an  omnivorous  reader.  In  her  early 
home  there  were  inspiring  influences:  the  original  mind  of 
her  eldest  brother  Edward,  the  fine  personality  of  her  elder 
brother  Joseph,  and  a  great  love  for  the  younger  children. 
There  were  four  sisters  in  the  household  and  six  brothers. 
All  her  brothers  became  attorneys.  The  house  teemed 
with  youthful  energy,  held  within  bounds  by  the  austere 
puritanic  ideals  of  the  head  of  the  house  and  by  the  in 
valuable  influence  of  the  stepmother,  Caroline  Lord  Bacon, 
sister  of  Dr.  John  Lord,  author  of  Beacon  Lights  of  His 
tory.  She  was  a  woman  of  high  education,  refinement  and 
spirituality.  Mrs.  Emily  Hoppin,  widely  known  in  social, 
educational  and  philanthropic  work,  is  her  daughter.  Fred 
erick  Bacon,  the  author  of  standard  law  books,  is  her  son. 

Mary  Bacon  was  a  student  in  New  York  City  for  one  year, 
graduating  at  Brooklyn  Heights  Seminary.  The  editor  of 
the  publication  which  later  became  St.  Nicholas  Magazine, 
observing  this  intellectual  girl  on  commencement  day, 
called  to  see  her  and  asked  her  to  stay  in  New  York  and! 
be  on  the  magazine  staff.  She  was  then  eighteen. 

She  returned  to  her  home  in  Michigan,  and  four  years 
later  was  married  to  Frederick  Field.  Their  home  was  for 
seventeen  years  in  the  picturesque  Vermont  mountain  town 
of  East  Dorset,  birthplace  of  their  six  children.  There 
came  unspeakable  tragedy  in  the  death  of  three  children  in 
one  month  from  typhoid  fever. 


12 


Sketches 


Mrs.  Field's  life's  story  of  mother-love  she  told  in  verses 
which  are  now  in  permanent  collections  and  will  live 
through  centuries.  Her  literary  work  is  reviewed  in  follow 
ing  pages  of  this  volume.  In  1874  Mr.  Field  brought 
his  family  to  San  Jose,  California,  which  became  their  home 
for  many  years.  Aside  from  swift  and  versatile  literary 
achievement,  Mrs.  Field  worked  con  amore  for  the  church, 
for  charities  and  philanthropies,  lectured  at  Stanford  Uni 
versity  on  sociological  topics,  was  for  many  years  director 
of  the  Monterey  Summer  School,  and  for  twelve  years  was 
Pacific  Coast  secretary  of  the  home  reading  circles  of  the 
Chautauqua  Society,  then  of  large  membership  and  fore 
runner  of  university  extension.  Mrs.  Field  became  one 
of  the  most  popular  women  on  the  Pacific  Coast,  to  which 
fact  the  accompanying  extracts  from  letters  show  "so  great 
a  cloud  of  witnesses."  This  wide  popularity  was  the  more 
unusual  as  Mrs.  Field  was  not  of  "popular"  type :  abstraction 
in  thought  was  habitual,  a  spirit-like  remoteness  was 
characteristic  of  her  gentle  presence.  She  resembled  her 
father,  his  rugged  profile  was  developed  in  her  face  into 
tender,  noble  lines,  the  eyes  were  gray  and  deep-set,  her 
brow  was  of  intellectual  beauty  ***** 


13 


Biographical    Sketches 

An  editorial  by  Judge  John  E.  Richards,  on  the  eve 
of  Mrs.  Field's  departure  from  San  Jose  for  the 
East  in  1891: 

As  has  been  announced  in  our  social  columns,  Mrs.  Mary 
H.  Field  will  in  a  few  days  leave  San  Jose  to  make  her  home 
in  the  East.  This  means  to  us  something  more  than  the 
closing  of  a  hospitable  house,  the  absence  of  a  pleasant  fam 
ily  and  the  lack  of  the  personal  presence  of  a  friend.  It 
means  that  in  many  circles  of  work  there  will  be  missing 
hereafter  an  energy,  an  influence  and  a  leadership  that  have 
been  most  potent  and  helpful  in  the  past,  and  the  withdrawal 
of  which  cannot  but  be  accounted  as  a  great  loss.  Mrs.  Field 
has  long  occupied  a  unique  position  in  relation  to  the  var 
ious  elements  and  cliques  of  our  society,  and  when  she  de 
parts  will  leave  no  one  to  take  her  place.  In  her  church  and 
its  societies  and  work,  in  the  Woman's  Christian  Temper 
ance  Union,  in  the  Chautauqua  classes,  and  the  literary 
circles  of  the  city,  she  has  been  not  only  a  leader  but  an  in 
spiration.  Her  versatility  has  enabled  her  to  be  unobtrusively 
masterful  in  all  that  she  undertook,  and  having  undertaken 
much,  her  daily  life  among  us  has  been  directly  helpful  to  a 
greater  variety  of  men  and  women  and  in  more  varied  ways 
than  that  of  any  other  one  person  among  us.  Her  absence 
therefore  will  be  sorely  felt  in  many  ways  and  at  many 
times,  and  the  loss  cannot  be  made  up  until  she  herself  re 
turns  to  live  with  us  again  and  reopen  for  us  her  hospitable 
home. 


From  the  San  Joie  Mercury 


14 


MARY  FIELD 


Sculptured  by  T.  B.  Jackson,  1 886 


15 


Monterey,  California 
Detroit  Pub.  Co. 


Extracts  from   biographical  sketch  iy   Lucp  M.    Washburn 

*  *  *  *  Mrs.  Mary  H.  Field  was  for  twenty  years  associated 
in  varied  ways  with  the  very  best  of  San  Jose  life,  and  her 
memory  will  long  live  in  many  hearts.  *****  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Field  and  their  children  came  to  San  Jose  in  1874.  Mrs. 
Field's  personality,  while  modest  and  gentle,  was  of  so  high 
an  order  as  to  be  quickly  felt  in  San  Jose.  In  the  Presby 
terian  church,  where  her  husband  was  an  elder,  Mrs.  Field 
was  foremost  in  every  good  work.  Often  she  was  president 
of  missionary  and  other  societies,  but  was  equally  ready  to 
help  in  every  capacity.  Her  religion,  deep,  thoughtful,  yet 
joyous,  full  of  a  cheerful  and  steadfast  faith,  was  the  main 
spring  of  her  life,  shown  not  only  in  her  church  loyalty  and 
activity,  but  in  every  relation — in  the  family,  the  neighbor- 

From  the  San  Jose  Mercury,  July   1912. 


16 


Biographical      Sketches 

hood,  the  community.  Her  quick  intelligence  and  her  vital 
interest  in  every  living  question  were  equaled  by  her  social 
charm,  and  she  was  sought  in  every  circle.  Her  sense  of 
humor  played  over  her  solid  qualities  and  enlivened  her 
quiet  dignity  most  attractively,  helping  to  make  her  a  rare 
conversationalist. 

Her  ready  pen  disclosed  the  same  qualities  of  her  per 
sonality.  It  was  at  the  service  of  every  good  cause,  and 
generous  to  grace  social  occasions.  Many  a  graphic  report, 
or  tenderly  written  personal  tribute,  charming  poem  or  jeu 
d'esprit  remains,  the  best  history  of  the  event  that  called 
it  forth.  Their  merit  made  them  constantly  sought  for 
publication,  and  thus  many  of  them  have  happily  been  pre 
served  by  the  Mercury  and  other  periodicals.  A  missionary 
appeal  would  in  her  hands  take  the  form  of  a  quaint  and 
moving  story — "Ezra  and  Me  and  the  Missionary  Boards." 
Her  gay  little  parody,  "This  is  the  Church  Mrs.  Cobb  Built," 
preserves  for  smiles  and  tears  the  rollcall  and  the  very 
spirit  of  the  united  effort  that  enlarged  the  building  of  the 
old  pioneer  First  Church,  afterward  laid  low  by  the  earth 
quake.  It  is  to  her  "Arboreal  Song"  that  we  must  turn  to 
realize  the  greatest  beauty  San  Jose  possessed — the  noble 
triple  lines  of  grand  trees  planted  by  the  Mission  Fathers 
between  Santa  Clara  and  San  Jose,  that  made  the  broad 
avenue  indeed,  "The  Alameda,  the  beautiful  Way,  the  pride 
and  joy  of  San  Jose." 

The  copies  of  this  poem  still  extant  in  the  form  of  an 
illustrated  booklet  sold  for  the  benefit  of  the  Orphans' 
Home,  to  which  Mrs.  Field  donated  it,  should  be  treasured 
by  San  Joseans,  who  have  lost  the  glory  of  the  ancient  trees. 

Everything  Mrs.  Field  wrote  had  the  literary  touch.  But 
her  poetic  gift  was  not  limited  to  the  service  of  occasions. 
Some  exquisite  poems  of  hers  voicing  the  deeper  ex 
periences,  particularly  of  motherhood,  and  appealing  to  the 


17 


Biographical 


universal  heart  have  found  their  way  through  magazines 
and  newspapers  into  general  circulation,  and  have  become  a 
part  of  our  permanent  national  literature. 

Mrs.  Field  wrote  valuable  literary  and  historical  studies, 
many  sketches  of  life  in  Mexico,  and  in  her  seventieth  year 
becoming  interested  in  the  language  when  sojourning  in 
Mexico,  she  published  a  much  needed  English-Mexican  book 
of  household  phrases. 

As  secretary  of  the  Pacific  Coast  branch  of  the  Chau- 
tauqua  Literary  and  Scientific  circle  Mrs.  Field  carried  on  a 
wide  correspondence  and  exerted  a  large  influence  during 
the  years  when  that  society  pioneered  the  way  on  this  coast 
for  university  extension  and  other  reading  courses  of  study. 
This  work  made  her  the  leader  of  hundreds  of  readers, 
gathered  in  "circles"  or  inspired  in  their  solitary  studies 
in  the  wide,  lonely  spaces  of  California.  It  also  made  her 
a  central  figure  in  the  summer  assembly  at  Pacific  Grove, 
and  eventually  gave  her  a  warm  reception  at  the  great 
parent  assembly  at  Chautauqua  Lake,  New  York,  which 
she  visited  in  the  year  of  the  World's  Fair.  Two  of  her  best- 
known  books  were  ^he  outgrowth  of  this  connection — "Kate 
Thurston's  Chautauqua  Circle"  and  "The  Evolution  of  Mrs. 
Thomas."  The  latter  book  brought  her  warm  recognition 
from  that  best  judge  of  such  writing  in  the  land,  Edward 
Everett  Hale,  who  told  her,  as  he  grasped  her  hand,  that  it 
was  the  best  Chautauqua  book  he  had  ever  read.  And 
crowning  her  Chautauqua  work  and  intercourse  with  its 
leaders  was  her  permanent  friendship  with  the  eminent 
founder  of  the  institution,  Bishop  Vincent,  whose  appre 
ciation  of  Mrs.  Field  has  shown  itself  deep  and  lasting. 

Although  it  is  over  twenty  years  since  her  home  was  in 
San  Jose,  the  intervening  time  having  led  her  far  away 
with  her  daughter  and  sons — to  Colorado,  to  New  Yorkj 
City,  to  Mexico — she  has  been  several  times  a  guest  in  our 


18 


Sketches 


city,  at  the  home  of  Mrs.  S.  R.  Field,  and  has  never  lost 
touch  with  old  friends  nor  with  the  progress  of  San  Jose. 
Her  last  visit  here,  nearly  two  years  ago,  was  made  the 
occasion  of  an  ovation  by  the  Monday  Club,  of  which  she 
had  been  one  of  the  foremost  members.  In  1903  Mrs.  Field 
sent  from  New  York  City  the  following  response  to  an  in 
vitation  to  attend  a  reunion  with  San  Jose  friends — when 
a  continent  lay  between.  It  may  well  be  published  here,  as 
if  a  last  word  from  her  to  her  many  friends  and  to  the 
San  Jose  she  loved  and  adorned. 

ANOTHER    GUEST 

Not  as  of  old  at  the  Egyptian  board 

The  cerement-vestured  dead 
Stood  in  his  wonted  place  with  meagre  form 

And  darkly  mantled  head 

A  shadowing  presence,  hushing  youth's  gay  laugh, 

Quenching  the  jest  and  song, 
And  whispering  in  the  unwilling  ear  of  life, 

"Thou  too,  thou  too,  ere  long!" 

Nor  as  a  ghostly  comrade,  wan  and  strange, 

With  gliding  step,  alone, 
Claiming  with  upraised  finger  and  cold  eye 

All  that  was  once  my  own. 

Nay,  nay,  not  with  unwonted  garb  or  mien, 

Nor  with  unsmiling  face, 
But  just  as  in  the  days  gone  by  I  seek 

The  dear  familiar  place. 

I  stretch  out  friendly  hands  to  meet  your  grasp, 

My  eyes  with  warm  lights  fill, 
And  to  the  music  of  your  welcoming  cheer 

My  heart  is  all  athrill. 

Across  the  severing  mountains  and  wide  plains 

Flies  my  untrammeled  soul — 
O  friends  beloved,  make  room  for  me  I  pray, 

Have  I  not  reached  my  goal? 

19 


fe. 


* Pub.  Co.  Almond  Orchard  Near  San   Jose,  O.I. 

MCaria  Holly  Sheldon 

*  *  *  *  ]y[rs  Field  was  a  woman  of  unusual  charm,  and  she 
tl-raw  a  spell  over  all  who  came  within  the  radius  of  her 
winning  and  gracious  personality.  The  author,  Elizabeth 
Prentiss,  who  was  her  friend  in  the  old  Dorset  days,  said 
of  her,  "She  is  a  woman  who  has  on  her  the  touch  of 
genius." 

A  delicate  humor,  a  never  failing  optimism,  the  God- 
given  intuition  that  found  the  best  in  everyone:  these  were 
distinguishing  charms  of  hers.  In  a  time  of  bitter  religious 
controversy  her  nephew  was  heard  to  say  to  her,  "Aunt 
Mary,  what  do  you  say  to  all  this  discussion?"  "I  would 
say,"  was  her  reply,  "  'Little  children,  love  one  another'." 

In  conversation,  she  drew  on  a  fund  of  stories,  and  of  per 
sonal  experiences  in  times  of  trial  and  of  joy.  In  corre- 

In  part  from  obituary  notice  in  The  Manchester  Journal 

20 


Biographical      Sketches 

spondence  she  gave  herself  lavishly  to  her  family  and 
friends.  Little  packages  of  letters  from  her  facile  pen 
have  been  cherished  it  is  safe  to  say,  the  world  over — in 
Chinese  fisher  huts  on  lone  Santa  Calalina  Island,  and  even 
in  the  White  House.  A  letter  from  Mrs.  Field  to  President 
Garfield  after  the  assassination  had  the  following  reply 
from  Mrs.  Garfield,  in  part,  "Your  words  to  cheer  the  suf 
ferer  were  not  in  vain.  Your  beautiful  graphic  descriptions 
gave  the  president  a  pleasant  half  hour"  *  *  *  *  *  The  letter 
was  sent  from  the  White  House  to  the  New  York  Times. 
The  poet  William  Henry  Woods  wrote  to  Mrs.  Field's 
daughter,  "I  had  only  a  literary  acquaintance  with  Mrs. 
Field  but  there  was  something  individual  and  to  me  very 
pleasant  in  her  letters.  I  shall  await  with  interest  the 
forthcoming  volume  of  her  poems.  I  recall  the  tenderness 
and  delicacy  of  her  preceding  little  book  of  verses." 

Children  loved  Mrs.  Field  and  never  forgot  her  wise  and 
witty  teachings.  In  early  life  she  wrote  several  books  for 
children,  but  her  poems  will  stay  longest  in  the  hearts  of 
her  friends. 

In  Mrs.  Field's  seventy-ninth  year,  after  lifelong  good 
health,  the  silver  cords  were  loosed,  She  wrote  to  a  rela 
tive,  "I  dare  say  I  shall  go  through  the  operation  safely. 
If  not,  I  am  in  no  wise  to  be  lamented.  All  is  well.  Thank 
God  for  dear  friends  and  children  who  will  not  forget  me." 
To  another  relative  she  wrote,  "I  hope  I  shall  slip  away 
some  day  and  give  little  warning.  My  mortal  part  would 
soon  be  lying  by  dear  ones  in  Dorset,  and  I,  the  rsal  I, 
should  home  have  gone  and  *ta'en  my  wages — not  sad  at  all 
to  my  thinking."  To  the  last  her  mind  was  clear  anil  un- 
quenched  as  in  youth.  She  found  peace  after  a  week  of 
great  suffering  borne  in  strength  of  spirit. 


21 


Biographical    Sketches 

At  the  old  home  in  the  village  of  Dorset,  Vermont,  on 
the  last  day  of  July,  1912,  a  little  group  of  friends  and  rela 
tives  strewed  pansies  with  loving  thoughts  upon  her 
grave.  In  accordance  with  the  wish  of  our  beloved,  Tenny 
son's  Crossing  the  Bar  was  read  with  beautiful  expression 
by  her  relative,  Dr.  George  Gilbert. 

CROSSING     THE     BAR. 

Sunset  and  evening  star, 

And  one  clear  call  for  me! 
And  may  there  be  no  moaning  of  the  bar, 

When  I  put  out  to  sea, 

But  such  a  tide  as  moving  seems  asleep, 

Too  full  for  sound  and  foam, 
When  that  which  drew  from  out  the  boundless  deep 

Turns  again  home 

Twilight  and  evening  bell, 

And  after  that  the  dark! 
And  may  there  be  no  sadness  of  farewell, 

When  I  embark, 

For  tho'  from  out  our  bourne  of  Time  and  Place 

The  flood  may  bear  me  far, 
I  hope  to  see  my  Pilot  face  to  face 

When  I  have  crossed  the  bar. 

One  daughter,  Mrs.  Mabel  Field  Hastings  is  left  in  the 
desolated  home  in  California.  Three  sons  mourn  the  death 
of  their  mother,  Arthur  Field  and  Hubert  Field  of  Guana 
juato,  Mexico,  and  Wilfrid  Field  of  New  York  City. 

'Dirge,  Shakespeare 


22 


In    Remembrance 

EXTRACTS  FROM  LETTERS  OF  CONDOLENCE 


Guanajuato,  Mexico. 

*  *  *  *  *  Let  us  recall  for  consolation  mother's  pure  and 
tranquil  life.    I  wish  my  sons  could  have  known  her  better. 
Her  superior  mind  counted  for  naught  the  trivial  things  of 
life,  she  saw  the  good  and  almost  entirely  overlooked  the 
evil.     Surely  such  character  does  not  die  with  the  body. 
What  delightful  memories  she  has  left  us. 

Arthur  Field. 

Brookwatson,  Nenagh,  Ireland. 

*  *  *  #  *  jjer  serene  spirit  was  an  inspiration  to  all  smaller 
fretful  souls.     Write  me  more  of  her  interesting  life  of 
striving  and  attaining.     It  is  easy  to  picture  her  with  her 
beloved  in  a  better  world  for  which  no  one  I  know  was  better 
fitted.  Elizabeth  Miller  Bernal. 

San  Jose,  California 

*  *  *  *  *Your  dear  mother's  absence  from  this  world  makes 
it  seem  a  less  habitable  place.    You  must  know  how  much 
she  was  beloved,  admired  and  honored.    San  Jose  has  never 
seemed  fully  itself  since  she  left  us.    May  you  have  a  sense 
of  presence  in  absence  as  the  days  go  on. 

Lydia  S.  B.  Cox. 

Berkeley,  California. 

*  How  precious  is  her  memory — yet  how  we  shall 
long  for  her  dear  presence  here  Penelope  B.  Eyster. 

Yolo,  California. 

*  *  *  *  * .  I  often  think  of  my  short  visit  to  your  mother  in 
Southern  California  in  1911.     How  she  was  enjoying  her 
"Homelet"  there,  the  glimpses  of  the  ocean  and  the  soft 
blue   haze    of    the    beautiful   hills    with    their   lights    and 
shadows!     She  had  me  come  often  and  stand  with  her  at 
the  window  to  watch  the  sunset  glow  or  sunrise  radiance — 
and  the  mocking  birds,  how  they  did  sing!    Once  we  spoke 

23 


Letters 

to  each  other  in  the  night,  exclaiming  over  the  enchanting 
songs.  She  cannot  come  back  to  tell  us  of  the  beauties 
of  the  other  Land,  and 

We  know  not  where  His  Islands  lift 

Their  fronded  palms  in  air; 
We  only  know  we  cannot  drift 

Beyond  His  love  and  care." 

Emily  Bacon  Hoppin. 

San  Jose,  California. 

*  *  *  *  *  She  was  the  dearest  of  grandmothers.  Her  life,  and 
her  sweetness  to  me,  have  been  a  benediction. 

Sarah  Richards  Field. 

9  St.  Louis,  Mo. 

*  *  *  *  *  For  fifty  years  our  affection  for  each  other  has, 
been  strong  and  abiding.    My  sister  was  a  lovely  character. 
He  intellect  was  brilliant.    Find  consolation  in  remembering 
her  long,  useful,  and  kindly  life.  .    • 

Frederick  Bacon. 

Ashland,  Oregon. 

*****i  hope  Aunt  Mary  did  not  suffer,  but  that  her 
sweet  symmetrical  spirit  peacefully  went  to  its  Maker. 
For  her  there  will  be  so  many  "voices  crying  'Hail'!" 

Cornelia  Goodrich  Kirkpatrick. 

New  York  City. 

*  *  *  *  *  sne  has  laid  the  burden  down.    How  cousin  Mary 
would  see  the  good  side!  She  had  earned  Heaven. 

Gertrude  Sykes  Child. 

Chicago,  111. 

*  *  *  *  *  NO  one  loved  her  more  than  I — after  living  with 
her  so  long.    We  can  have  only  pleasant  memories  of  her. 
Dear,  good  Mary  Field,  the  one  I  loved  most  among  my  hus 
band's  relatives  and  as  if  she  were  born  my  sister. 

Mary  Landon  Bacon. 


24 


Letters 

Purdys,  N.  Y. 

*  Her  wonderful  delightful  personality  charmed  me. 
The  blood  tie  seemed  particularly  strong.    It  is  a  deep  per 
sonal  grief  to  me  to  know  she  is  gone  into  the  Great  Silence. 

Anne  Beeson  Purdy. 

Erie,  Pa. 

*  So    my    husband's    sweet    sister    is    gone    to    the 
other  side.    But  she  is  ours  to  love  as  much  as  ever. 

Harriet  Holly  Bacon. 

North  Vernon,  Indiana. 

*  We  cannot  wish  her  back  to  take  up  life's  burdens 
and  anxieties.     I  never  thought  of  her  as  old.     I  cannot 
think  of  her  as  claimed   by   death — but   as   alive   in   the 
Garden  of  the  Lord. 

Mary  Babb  Taylor. 

San  Jose,  California. 

I  feel  deeply  for  you,  I  loved  your  mother.  May 
you  have  strength  to  pass  through  this  deep  sorrow. 

Frances  Sibley  Williams. 

San  Jose,  California. 

Your  mother  was  beloved  by  so  many  who  knew 
her  only  through  what  she  had  written.  In  blindness  I  am 
only  waiting  to  go  into  the  Eternal  Light.  Near  the  end 
of  a  long  life,  I  have  no  friend  whose  memory  is  sweeter 
than  that  of  your  mother. 

Mary  Carey. 

New  York  City. 

*  I  cannot  be  too  thankful  that  you  could  go  with  her 
to  the  end  of  life's  journey.     For  her,  dear  saint,  we  can 
only  rejoice.    I  love  to  think  of  her  awakening  to  the  other 
life.     How  fitted    and    equipped    she    was    to    enter    the 
Heavenly  Land. 

Sarah  Trow  Carter. 


25 


L,  e  1 1  e  r  s 

Los  Angeles,  California. 
*  I  cannot  tell  my  grief. 

Ada  M.  Gates. 

San  Jose,  California. 

*  How  we  miss  her  life  here  among  us,  her  living 
self,  her  true  affection — words  cannot  tell.    Those  blessed 
old  days  will  come  no  more,  but  love  is  fadeless. 

Helen  E.  Beal. 

San  Jose,  California. 

:  *  How  earnestly  we  wish  that  our  love,  our  long 
unbroken  friendship,  could  help  you  to  bear  this  unspeak 
able  sorrow. 

Flora  E.  Beal. 

Santa  Ana,  California. 

<  We  shall  love  to  think  of  the  old  times,  blessed! 
memories !  A  help  and  comfort  through  the  rest  of  our  lives. 

Etta  Beal  Miner. 

Mills  College,  California. 

*  Accept  my  deep  sympathy.    Your  mother  was  our 
valued   friend   these   many   years. 

Amelia  A.  Keep. 
(Mrs.  Josiah  Keep.) 

East  Dorset,  Vermont. 

*  I  shall  miss  her  letters.    She  was  so  dear  a  friend. 

Mary  C.  Harwood. 

Indianapolis,  Indiana. 

:<  Wherever  her  gentle  influence  has  been  felt,  there 
she  will  ever  be  very  near,  ever  near.  For  she  has  left 
memories  that  shall  not  soon  pass.  And  I  rejoice  that  I  am 
among  those  who  came  under  the  heritage  of  those  memo 
ries.  As  gently  as  I  can  I  ask  you  to  accept  for  yourself 
and  your  brothers  the  tenderest  sympathy. 

Albert  Garrett  Small. 


26 


Letters 


Redlands,  California. 

Aunt  Mary  had  such  rare  intellectual  and  spiritual  gifts, 
and  her  companionship  was  so  delightful  that  all  of  us  who 
knew  her  loved  her  and  feel  her  death  keenly. 

Kirke  H.  Field. 

Chicago,  111. 

*  *  *  *  *  What  Mrs.  Field  enjoyed  in  the    wider,    nobler, 
richer  realm  to  which  by  natural  endowment   and  early 
opportunity  she  belonged,  she  was  eager  to  have  others 
enjoy.    I  sympathize  with  you  in  your  great  bereavement, 
but  I  must  congratulate  you  on  having   (for  she  is  still 
yours)   such  an  unusually  wise  gifted  charming  mother. 

*  *  *  *  *  I  wrote  you  yesterday  but  rereading  your  letter  for 
the  fifth  or  sixth  time  other  memories  awaken.    Mrs.  Field 
was  as  enterprising  as  she  was  interesting.    Her  devotion 
to  the  Chautauqua  work  was  always  a  source  of  delight  to 
me.    This  is  life:  the  shadow  of  death  always  overhangs, 
but  earnest  souls  who  love  and  live  the  Truth  do  conquer 
death. 

John  H.  Vincent. 

*  *  *  *  *  Close  to  the  Faith,  she  passed  out  of  the  world 
into  the  Eternal  we  so  much  desire. 

Jose    Guadalupe  Medrano. 
(The  old  priest  of  Calderones,    Mexico) 

Chicago,  111. 

*  *  *  *  *  Our  mothers  are  from  first  to  last  our  heroines. 
Their  loves  and  enthusiasms  are  ours,  first  because  we  fol 
low  them  unseeing,  but  finally  as  our  best  output.     Dear 
Aunt  Mary  has  gone  away  from  the  suffering  and  from  old 
age.    I  remember  I  loved  to  be  with  her  when  I  was  a  little 
girl — and  I  have  never  seen  Aunt  Mary  leave  me  without  a 
grip  at  my  heart,  a  sense  of  great  loss. 

Kitty  Field  White. 


27 


Author 


1855 


ONE     LITTLE     MEADOW 

Reminiscence  of  the  early  home 

@y  MARY  FIELD 

*  *  *  *  *  Year  by  year  the  grain  fields  of  the  home 
stead  stretched  farther  into  the  forest,  and  orchards  took 
the  place  of  the  "oak-openings,"  although  many  a  stately 
father  of  the  forest  was  left  standing  to  adorn  the  land 
scape,  and  the  house  stood  in  a  grove  of  them.  But  the 
little  meadow  was  left  untouched.  Its  few  acres  of  rich  soil 
blossomed  on  at  their  own  sweet  will,  and  all  around  it  was 
also  left  a  fringe  of  underbrush,  with  here  and  there  a  great 
oak  or  a  tall  unbranching  hickory. 

Ah,  what  a  playground  was  here  for  the  four  children — 
two  little  sisters  and  two  brothers!  All  summer  here  they 
raced  and  climbed  and  swung  along  with  the  squirrels  and 


28 


Autobiographical  Reminiscence 

the  birds,  and  in  the  fall  at  nutting  time  shared  amiablyj 
with  them  the  unfailing  harvest.    Only  the  bluejays  scolded. 

The  wise  young  mother  turned  this  grove  into  an 
Academe,  herself  a  modest  and  unconscious  Plato.  Here 
long  before  "nature  study"  had  been  urged  from  the  house 
tops,  or  "summer  schools"  been  opened  to  gather  in  unwary 
holiday-takers,  she  invented  the  whole  scheme. 

She  had  a  way  of  taking  her  little  sewing  chair  and  work- 
basket  out  under  the  trees,  in  the  long  sweet  summer  days, 
and  thus  made  all  outdoors  seem  homelike.  With  the  sewing 
came  always  a  book  or  two;  often  the  children's  own  little 
orange-colored  ornithology,  full  of  pictures  of  their  friends, 
the  robins  and  meadow-larks  and  wood-peckers  and  whip- 
poorwills,  with  their  long  names  slyly  tucked  into  parenthes 
es — over  which  the  children  made  wry  faces  and  the  birds 
themselves,  from  their  leafy  perches,  seemed  to  look 
askance.  It  seems  almost  incredible  that  there  should  have 
been  such  a  book  out  on  the  frontier  at  that  early  day,  but 
there  it  certainly  was.  There  too  were  all  the  volumes  of 
Goldsmith's  "Animated  Nature."  These  with  the  Peter 
Parley  books  and  the  well  worn  botany,  made  up  the  Nature 
library  of  this  little  pioneer  school.  All  were  brought  into 
use,  and  the  young  students — two  of  them  mere  toddlers 
who  could  hardly  be  trusted  out  of  sight — were  turned  loose 
for  original  investigation  and  experiment,  quite  like  uni 
versity  students  of  the  present  day.  What  patient  watch 
ing  went  on  of  bee  and  bird  and  blossom!  What  careful 
handling  of  beetles  and  butterflies!  What  skilful  and  ac 
curate  counting  of  petals,  stamens  and  pistils!  A  wonderful 
schoolroom,  a  model  teacher,  never  to  be  forgotten  lessons! 

The  flowers,  on  the  whole  carried  off  the  palm  with  both 
teacher  and  pupils.  They  seemed  to  come  in  endless  pro 
cession,  and  the  meadow  was  almost  always  accessible  to 
little  feet.  The  winters  were  very  mild  and  short.  Deep 
snows  and  lasting  storms  were  rare,  and  always  there  was 


29 


A  utobio graphical 

something  to  look  for:  some  feathery  dry  grass  or  weed, 
some  quaint  rush  or  lichen,  or  valiant  great  cattail..  And 
then,  to  the  eye  of  faith,  pussy  willows  were  forever  imma 
nent  and  should  be  daily  watched  for.  Neither  did  Bob 
White  ever  forsake  the  meadow  as  a  visiting  place,  especially 
if  small  hands  scattered  corn  among  the  dry  grasses;  and 
all  winter  long  old  father  Crow,  on  sunny  days  preened  his 
shining  feathers  atop  of  an  old  fire-girdled  oak,  giving 
challenge  ever  and  anon  to  loquacious  jays  who  also  lingered 
through  the  year. 

But  oh,  when  spring  really  came  up  from  the  southland 
and  dried  up  the  pools  and  the  miry  places,  how  the 
meadow  and  the  children  welcomed  her!  A  single  week  of 
mild  March  weather  brought  indisputably  the  catkins  to 
the  front,  and  set  the  little  blue  eyes  of  the  hepaticas  peep 
ing  out  from  their  furry  hoods.  The  child  who  came  run 
ning  home  with  the  first  of  these  was  as  welcome  as  the 
earliest  bluebird  and  as  flattered  and  distinguished  as 
other  lucky  people  are  apt  to  be. .  Then  Nan,  the  black  cook, 
encouraged  by  these  tokens,  would  set  forth  with  pail  and 
knife  for  the  wet  far  side  of  the  meadow  where  the  cow 
slips  (marsh  marigolds)  grew,  and  return,  if  successful, 
with  the  material  for  the  first  welcome  dish  of  "greens/' 
April  came,  and  on  a  certain  sunny  southern  slope  near  the 
meadow,  where  a  thicket  of  saplings  grew,  wood  anemones 
began  to  unfurl  their  white  kerchiefs  and  set  up  a  flirtation 
with  the  south  wind.  Then  came  the  violets,  half  a  dozen 
kinds,  but,  loveliest  and  most  abundant  of  all,  the  great 
pale  blue  viola  pedata.  By  May-day  the  children  would  be 
bringing  in  claytonias  and  bishop's  caps  and  dandelions 
galore. 

After  this  there  was  no  use  trying  to  keep  count! 
It  was  high  time  for  the  Summer  School  to  open,  and  what 
a  gala  season  it  was!  The  green  leaves  over  them  "clapped 
their  little  hands  in  glee,"  the  bluebells  rang  cheerily,  and 


30 


emtntscence 


Jack-in-the-pulpit  stood  up  in  his  royal  purple  vestments 
to  give  them  his  benediction.  In  those  days  of  lavish 
blossoming  the  teacher's  basket  used  to  lose  itself  in 
lychnidias  and  lupines,  the  children  rolled  down  banks  of 
moss-pinks,  they  made  flower  garlands  and  necklaces  and 
girdles  like  young  Hawaiians,  they  even  pulled  off  shoes 
and  stockings  and  decorated  their  toes  with  ladies'  slippers ! 
The  teacher  started  a  competition  as  to  who  could  find 
most  kinds  of  flowers,  and  thus  beguiled,  they  discovered 
more  than  a  hundred  genera.  Then  of  course  herbariums 
came  in  fashion,  and  there  was  a  commendable  struggle  to 
call  the  little  flower  neighbors  by  their  scientific  names. 
This  feat  could  not  be  accomplished  to  any  great  extent,  but 
there  were  quite  a  number  of  the  simpler  technical  names 
which  became  familiar  and  were  thus  engraved  for  a  life 
time  on  the  impressible  young  memories. 

Best  of  all,  they  learned  to  "consider  the  lilies  how  they 
grow,"  to  know  well  each  great  flower  family,  and  how 
there  were  tribes  and  kindred  among  those  pretty  wild- 
wood  things,  and  that  each  had  its  appointed  time  an$ 
place — Law  and  Order  everywhere  and  tender  Care — not 
even  tiny  seeds  forgotten,  but  equipped  with  wise  fore 
thought  for  their  journey  ings.  The  smallest  child  learned 
to  see  that  "the  meadow  all  over  was  lettered  LOVE." 

May  was  buttercup  and  daisy  time.  June  brought  the 
trilliums  and  columbines  and  clovers,  the  cranebills,  the 
blazing-stars,  the  spiderworts  and  castellias  and  the  be 
loved  wild  roses.  In  July  the  meadow  was  aflame  with 
cardinal  flowers  and  red  lilies  and  blackeyed-Susans.  In 
August  the  orchids  arrived,  the  beautiful  arethusa  bulbosa 
first,  and  then  the  great  yellow-fringed  orchis  lit  its 
torches.  Then  came  the  asters  and  the  goldenrods,  and 
last  the  dear  gentians.  Only  the  great  leaders  in  the  pro 
cession  have  been  named.  There  were  trains  of  humble 
followers,  as  is  the  way  of  the  world.  It  goes  without  tell- 


31 


Autobiographical  Reminiscence 

ing  that  the  meadow  was  a  famous  foraging  place.  There 
was  always  something  to  nibble,  and  children  are  as  ad 
dicted  to  this  as  young  lambs.  Our  little  foresters  were 
always  perfumed  with  sassafras  or  wintergreen. 

The  latter  was  in  evidence  through  the  whole  year.  Its 
spicy  young  shoots  were  among  the  earliest  of  the  "green 
things  growing,"  and  all  summer  the  shining  leaves  were 
good  munching.  Then  came  the  delightful  wintergreen  ber 
ries  which  stayed  on  all  winter,  and  could  be  found  on  the 
lee  side  of  old  logs,  when  snow  lay  thick  on  the  ground  un- 
faded  by  frost  and  with  undiminished  flavor.  Sassafras 
grew  everywhere  along  the  edges  of  the  fields.  What  aro 
matic  pungencies  lay  in  leaf  and  bark  and  root !  What  grate 
ful  coolness  and  flavor  the  white  pith  gave  to  a  glass  of 
water ! 

All  the  mints  flourished  in  this  garden  of  simples:  spear- 
mint,  balms  of  two  or  three  kinds,  pennyroyal,  peppergrass, 
and  watercress.  Early  in  July  great  luscious  strawberries 
abounded,  and  later  came  huckleberries  and  blueberries, 
dewberries  and  blackberries,  each  according  to  its  season. 
The  little  Potawottimies  must  have  had  rare  pickings  there 
in  the  old  days,  but  the  Government  had  ere  this  moved  the 
tribe  to  a  new  reservation  far  to  the  westward. 

To  the  pale-face  children  also  must  come  the  inevitable 
changes  of  Time.  Let  us  drop  the  curtain  while  all  is  well 
with  them  and  leave  mother  and  children  among  the  flow 
ers. 

More  than  half  a  century  has  passed.  Strangers  live  in 
the  old  home.  The  great  trees  have  all  disappeared.  The 
meadow  has  been  converted  into  a  fruitful  field.  All  who 
loved  the  wild-flower  garden  are  far  away,  most  of  them  in 
the  Invisible  Country — and  the  garden  itself  is  irreparably 
and  forever  gone. 

Gone,  do  we  say?    Nay,  verily.    It  lives  and  shall  live. 
"God's  colors  all  are  fast." 

Its  blossoms  take  their  place — beautiful,  fragrant,  im 
mortal — among  the  asphodels. 


32 


Frederic^    Field 


Biographical  Pages 
By  Mabel  Field  Hastings 


My  homesick  heart  would  backward  turn 
To  find  this  dear  familiar  Earth, 

To  watch  its  sacred  hearth  fires  burn 
And  hear  its  songs  of  joy  and  mirth. 

Pd  lean  from  out  the  heavenly  choir 
To  hear  once  more  the  red  cock  crow 

What  time  the  morning's  rosy  fire 
O'er  hill  and  field  begin  to  glow. 

To  hear  the  ripple  of  the  rain, 

The  summer  waves  at  ocean's  brim, 

To  hear  the  sparrow  sing  again 

I'd  quit  the  wide-eyed  cherubim. 

And  yet,  and  yet,  O  dearest  one, 

My  comfort  from  life's  earliest  breath, 

To  follow  you  where  you  are  gone 

Through  those  dim  awful  Gates  of  Death, 

To  find  you,  feel  your  smile  once  more, 

To  have  eternity's  long  day 
To  tell  my  grateful  love — why  then 

Both  Heaven  and  Earth  might  pass  away. 

Celia  Thaxter. 


Photograph  by 
Huntington  Gilbert 


FREDERICK     FIELD 


Biographical  pages  regarding  Mrs.  Mary  Field  would  be 
only  partly  true  if  but  slight  mention  were  made  of  Fred 
erick  Field,  whose  "dauntless  hope  and  patient  care  and 
generous  sacrifice"  his  wife  commemorates  in  the  first  poem 
of  this  volume.  His  chivalrous  mind  maintained  for  his 
wife,  freedom,  a  large  measure  of  leisure,  perfect  health, 
opportunity  for  a  joyful  intellectual  life. 

In  Dorset,  Vermont,  in  1820,  in  the  old  homestead  of  the 
broad  elms  pictured  above  Frederick  Field  was  born  to  true 
love  and  care.  O  wise  and  kind,  dearest  old  New  England 
home!  Your  light  still  shines  from  many  young  faces  of 
the  third  and  fourth  generations. 


35 


Frederick     Field 

About  1820,  over  in  Stockbridge,  Mass.,  Frederick  Field's 
kinsmen  were  growing  up:  Cyrus  Field,  Stephen  J.,  James 
T.,  David  Dudley  and  Henry  M.,  in  one  household,  product  of 
another  good  New  England  home. 

The  delicate,  oversensitive  face  of  Alfred  Field,  father  of 
Frederick  Field,  looks  forth  from  a  clear  old  daguerreotype. 
Faithful  eldest  brother  of  thirteen  children,  he  had  seen 
long  training  and  was  grown  swift  and  erudite  in  kindness. 
"Squire"  Alfred  Field  was  made  administrator  without 
bonds  (and  incidentally  without  fee)  for  uncounted  widows 
and  orphans.  "Faculized"  and  "forehanded"  (in  good  down 
East  phrase)  his  stony  stock  farm  prospered  and  endowed 
each  of  his  four  children.  Frederick  Field's  great-grand 
father  gave  his  life  in  the  Revolutionary  War.  Lest  we  for 
get,  let  it  be  set  down  that  this  patriotism  left  his  son  a 
fatherless  boy  who  went  barefoot  to  winter  school.  This 
son  married  Governor  Huntington's  granddaughter,  who 
held  a  little  teacher's  certificate,  unusual  in  that  day  (now 
an  heirloom  still  outlasting).  Her  daughter,  Saphronia  Gil 
bert,  Frederick  Field's  mother,  was  a  thoughtful  woman, 
who  read  far  into  the  night  through  the  arctic  winters.  She 
had  seen  "the  great  plague"  sweep  the  Vermont  valleys, 
when  she  had  been  called  far  and  wide  as  a  brave  and  skill 
ful  nurse  in  her  thirteenth  year. 

Little  Frederick  even  in  the  puritanic  atmosphere  of  that 
time,  so  the  record  runs,  never  once  required  real  "punish 
ment."  He  was  a  friendly  little  one.  We  see  him  fondly 
clothed  in  apple  green,  the  little  trousers  reaching  to  the 
ankle,  a  short-waisted  jacket  begirt  with  many  small  yellow 
buttons,  white  hose,  strapped  slippers,  this  at  the  age  of 
six.  His  costume  was  topped  off  by  a  tall  white  silk  hat 
such  as  is  worn  now  only  by  "Uncle  Sam"  in  all  cartoons. 
There  has  been  handed  down  one  tale  of  his  sixth  year. 
Then,  one  morning,  Frederick  found  a  new  baby  sister  in 
the  house.  Thereafter,  all  that  spring,  it  was  difficult  to 
persuade  little  Frederick  to  set  forth  without  a  heavy  plaid 
shawl,  which  all  day  he  wanted  to  carry  to  wrap  a  sister  in 


FROM  THE  FIELD  FARM 

From  a  painting  by  Mabel  Field  Hastings 


Frederick     Field 

if  he  should  chance  to  find  another,  in  fresh-turned  furrow 
or  among  small  new  leaves  in  the  keen  spring  weather — 
kind  little  soul !  In  the  Dorset  home,  his  grandfather,  Amos 
Field,  sat  at  the  good  fireside  and  told  his  memories  of  "em 
battled  farmers"  in  the  great  war  for  liberty.  And  told  of 
a  yet  earlier  day  when  a  daughter  of  the  house  was  captured 
by  Indians  at  the  Deerfield  massacre.  A  wild  story:  the 
captive  white  girl  loved  her  children  of  the  forest  and  her 
young  Indian  husband,  and  though  he  would  have  joined 
the  white  settlement,  she  never  could  be  persuaded  to  stay 
long  in  "civilization"  with  its  torture  of  finatic  puritanism. 
Difficult  alternatives  were  yours,  Mary  Field,  plucky  toast 
of  our  latter  day  Thanksgiving  dinner! 

Frederick  Field  was  one  of  the  many  pale  New  England 
boys  who  went  into  the  rough  West  as  teachers  in  public 
school.  He  had  then,  and  always  after,  a  special  interest 
in  chemistry.  Later  and  through  life  he  was  a  dealer  in 
marble  and  granite.  He  imported  to  Chicago  the  first  gran 
ite  foundations  of  the  city.  In  1855  when  he  brought  home 
his  bride,  it  chanced  they  came  unexpected  to  the  door  of 
the  old  homestead.  They  overheard  the  voice  of  Mrs.  Al 
fred  Field  within  cheering  on  another  daughter-in-law 
through  devious  ways  of  preserving  wild  berries:  the  ca 
ressing  voice  floated  out  across  the  hospitable,  old  threshold 
to  the  ear  of  the  timid  young  Western  bride  without  and 
thereupon  she  trusted  her  husband's  mother,  unseen,  with  a 
trust  undimmed  to  the  end.  They  were  a  united  family.  Mr. 
Field  was  devotedly  attached  to  his  sister,  Mrs.  James  Good 
rich,  his  sister,  Ellen  Field,  and  his  brother,  Charles  Field, 
who  served  with  distinction  as  an  officer  in  the  Civil  War. 

Mr.  Field's  home  was  in  East  Dorset,  Vermont,  from  1855 
to  1873  when,  soon  after  the  completion  of  the  transconti 
nental  railroad,  he  brought  his  family  to  San  Jose,  Califor 
nia,  which  became  their  home  for  many  years.  He  was  a 
student  of  civics.  In  active  service  he  upheld  every  public 
cause,  yet  with  fine  mental  poise — no  man  was  more  sane. 
Dr.  Henry  Minton  wrote  of  him  as  "challenging  universal 


'Photographed  by  Huntington  Gilbert 


DORSET,  VERMONT 


Fr e  d  e  r  i  c  k      F i eld 

admiration,  a  champion  ever  mindful  of  the  highest  wel 
fare  of  the  community,  the  ready  sharer  of  men's  joys,  the 
willing  partner  of  their  grief;  yet  with  character  of  gran 
ite,  not  of  sickly  sentiment  or  of  mere  sediment  of  circum 
stance — a  very  father  in  the  wisdom  of  his  counsels,  a 
brother  in  the  loyalty  of  his  affection,  a  man  to  love!" 
Socially  his  taste  was  flawless.  The  fortunate  and  the  dis 
tinguished  folk,  many  of  whom  knew  him,  were  loath  to 
leave  the  clear  light  of  his  presence.  He  was  many  an  out 
cast  man's  most  cheerful  friend.  He  carried  consummately 
well,  a  man's  part.  He  bore  through  life  the  sore  burden  of 
a  weak  physique,  and  other  daily  loads  too  heavy  for  mor 
tal,  he  endured  with  fortitude.  His  children  say  of  him 
that  he  never  spoke  in  haste  and  bitterness,  or  called  his 
unceasing  toil  irksome  or  failed  of  dignified  good  cheer.  He 
was  a  perfect  disciplinarian  of  his  varying  boys :  the  youth 
ful  culprits  were  commonly  rendered  helpless  in  laughter  by 
the  tonic  phrases  of  his  ingenious  wit.  It  was  his  skillful 
arm  that  fended  his  wife  from  knowledge  of  hardships  that 
are  the  common  lot  of  woman. 

In  his  sixty-seventh  year,  still  in  his  prime,  when  on  duty 
as  a  member  of  the  State  Board  of  Trade  in  1887,  an  acci 
dent  caused  Mr.  Field's  death.  Concerning  the  tragedy,  the 
following  editorial  was  written  by  Judge  John  E.  Richards: 

"The  death  of  Frederick  Field  is  a  mournful  loss  to  the 
community.  *  *  *  *  *  The  manner  of  his  taking  off  seems 
all  unsuited  to  the  quiet,  careful  method  of  his  days.  We 
think  of  such  men  as  he  going  down  the  shady  vale  of  life 
in  gentleness,  gradually  withdrawing  from  the  dusty  high 
ways  of  "business  to  the  retired  and  love-strewn  footpaths 
of  a  good  old  age.  It  seems  almost  unkind  of  Providence  to 
permit  the  grim  Destroyer  to  exercise  so  harsh  and  cruel 
a  method  upon  so  kind  and  just  a  man.  Yet  after  all  there 
is  a  fitness  behind  it,  for  he  fell  in  the  direct  path  of  duty 
and  in  the  very  midst  of  endeavor  for  the  public  good.  *  *  *" 

His  wife  wrote  of  him:     "Memorial  stones  will  crumble, 


Frederick      Field 

but  his  life  of  simple  unostentatious  right-doing  has  left  its 
strong  and  abiding  impress  on  all  who  knew  him,  and  the 
influence  of  his  sweet,  pure,  unselfish  spirit  is  as  deathless 
as  the  eternity  of  God." 

John  Vance  Cheney  wrote,  in  part  as  follows:  "Among 
all  the  enconiums  called  forth  by  the  life  of  Ralph  Waldo 
Emerson,  perhaps  the  highest  was  addressed  not  to  the 
poet,  not  to  the  scholar  and  philosopher,  but  to  the  man — 'a 
power  tender  and  paternal  has  passed  from  Earth.'  In  oth 
er  words,  the  thing  men  reverence  most,  remember  first  and 
last,  is  a  right  heart.  Such  a  heart  was  Mr.  Field's.  It 
reached  out  to  the  great  brotherhood  of  men.  Of  the  many 
who  sought  his  aid,  not  one  left  him  without  such  aid  as  he 
could  give.  Rarely  may  one  chance  on  a  name  so  free  from 
damaging  criticism,  proof  against  stain.  I  attended  the 
funeral.  As  I  entered  the  church  a  glance  was  sufficient  to 
show  that  the  respect  and  affection  won  by  him  in  the  lit 
tle  New  England  State  had  followed  him  to  the  Western 
shore:  behind  the  altar  and  on  either  side  was  one  mass  of 
fresh  white  flowers  set  in  green  leaves,  while  against  the 
altar  rail  leaned  a  sheaf  of  ripe  wheat,  pure  gold — an  em 
blem  fitting  as  beautiful.  A  large  concourse  of  mourners 
crowded  the  church." 

Dr.  Henry  Minton  said  in  public  address:  *  *  *  *  *  "The 
plain  truth  is  the  highest  eulogy.  God's  best  gift  to  men  is 
a  good  man.  Go  not  to  the  probate  court  to  learn  what  such 
a  man  leaves  to  the  world :  ask  the  poor  in  their  poverty,  ask 
the  sorrowing  in  their  sadness,  the  struggling  in  their  con 
flict,  ask  the  men  who  knew  him  best  and  the  neighbors  who 
saw  him  most.  Frederick  Field  leaves  a  memory  of  vastly 
greater  value  than  a  vault  stuffed  with  bonds.  We  have  a 
regal  estate  of  Blessed  Memory  of  a  beautiful  faithful  life." 

After  the  lapse  of  half  a  lifetime,  the  remembrance  of 
him  makes  life  dear. 

Mabel  Field  Hastings. 


Po 


ems 


Wedded    Love 


FREDERICK  FIELD 


From  a  painting  by  Mabel  Field  Hastings 


TO   FREDERICK  FIELD 

On  his  sixtieth  birthday 

We  live  in  deeds,  not  years,  the  poet  said — 

O  comrade  mine, 
If  this  be  true  and  thy  good  deeds  were  weighed, 

What  age  is  thine! 

With  old  Methusaleh's  thy  years  compare 

If  of  deep  thought 
And  generous  sacrifice  and  patient  care 

Long  life  be  wrought. 

But  if  we  measure  youth  by  warmth  of  heart, 

By  guileless  joy, 
By  dauntless  faith  and  hope,  how  young  thou  art, 

My  graybeard  boy! 

Why  talk  of  birthdays?   Like  an  oft  heard  chime 

We'll  let  them  pass. 
Years  touch  not  the  Immortal — Father  Time, 

Put  up  thy  glass ! 


"SWEETHEART,  FROM  THIS  MOST 
FATEFUL  HOUR" 

To  Metta  A  bbott  Taylor  on  her   wedding  day  in 
December. 

Sweetheart,  from  this  most  fateful  hour  I  pray 

Your  life  may  take  such  summer  radiance  on 

That  in  your  calendar  the  seasons  may 

Reversal  find,  so  that  when  years  have  gone, 

If  one  should  question:  "When  does  sunshine  glow 

Most  brightly  in  this  California  air? 

When  sing  the  birds  best?  When  do  roses  blow?" 

Like  a  frank,  happy  child,  all  unaware 

Of  telling  your  sweet  secret,  you  shall  say: 

"To  me  December  crowns  the  golden  year, 

To  me  it  is  the  songful  blossoming  May, 

Of  all  the  months  its  sunshine  is  most  clear." 


GOLDEN    WEDDING 

To  Mr.  and  Mrs.  James  Goodrich. 
(Read  at  their  golden  wedding  day  reception. ) 

Sweet  is  the  morn  with  dew  and  glowing  bloom 
And  song  of  waking  bird. 

But  evening  is  the  time  of  firelight  cheer 
Clasped  hand  and  thoughtful  word. 

And  spring  is  sweet  with  promise  unfulfilled 
Of  opening  bud  and  leaf, 

But  autumn  is  the  time  of  harvest-home, 
Of  vintage  and  of  sheaf. 


46 


O  Evening,  dear  to  weary  eye  and  hand, 
O  Autumn,  end  of  fears, 

O  Harvest  of  immeasurable  wealth, 
0  golden  crown  of  Years! 


BENEATH    THE    LAMP 

Beneath  the  lamp  their  shadows  blend  and  fall. 
She  plies  her  graceful  needle  art, 
He  reads  of  distant  land  and  mart — 

But  far  and  faintly  comes  the  great  world's  call, 
The  great  world's  joy  and  pain: 
Their  hearts  beat  one  refrain, 
"The  world  is  wide,  the  world  is  wide 
But  you  and  I  are  side  by  side." 

Beneath  the  lamp  their  shadows  blend  and  fall, 
She  reads  the  storied  page  aloud 
In  low  sweet  voice,  while  round  them  crowd 

The  splendid  groups  that  sweep  through  Fancy's  hall, 
Its  world  of  joy  and  pain : 
Their  hearts  beat  one  refrain, 
"The  world  is  wide,  the  world  is  wide 
But  you  and  I  are  side  by  side." 

Beneath  the  lamp  their  shadows  blend  and  fall, 

Her  fingers  glance  along  the  keys 

And  weave  entrancing  harmonies, 
Sadness  and  gladness  come  in  music's  thrall, 

Its  world  of  joy  and  pain: 

Their  hearts  beat  one  refrain, 

"The  world  is  wide,  the  world  is  wide 

But  you  and  I  are  side  by  side." 


47 


COMRADE      MARY 

To  Colonel  and  Mrs.  Bennett. 
(Read  at  their  silver  wedding  day  reception) 

Let  others  sing  of  wedded  love, 

Comrade  Mary. 
There's  none  will  question  what  they  prove, 

Nor  even  vary 

From  all  their  most  romantic  views, 
Nor  once  a  willing  ear  refuse. 

But  I  have  been  where  drum  and  fife 

Were  loudly  calling, 
And  where  the  brave  in  deadly  strife 

Were  nobly  falling; 
There  side  by  side  we  comrades  fought 
And  our  dear  land's  long  rescue  wrought. 

We  shared  each  other's  joys  and  cares; 

And  ever  brightly 
To  me  the  camp-fire's  beacon  flares 

Where  then  we  nightly 
Lay  down  upon  our  arms,  with  dreams 
Of  home's  dear,  peaceful  hills  and  streams. 

Since  then  it  is  the  comrade-place 

Seems  still  the  nearest; 
The  comrade-name  bears  truest  grace, 

And  ever  dearest 

To  soldier  hearts  the  song,  I  ween, 
That  tells  about  the  old  canteen! 

Together  we  will  forward  go, 

Comrade  Mary. 
Thy  loyal  heart  not  weal  or  woe 

Doth  ever  vary. 

How  sweet  the  past,  since  shared  by  thee! 
We'll  trust  the  future's  comradery. 


Golden,  Colorado,  '92 


48 


KITTY    FIELD 

(In  a  "wedding  day  book") 


Here's  my  blessing  with  my  kiss 

Kitty  Field! 
May  the  cup  of  wedded  bliss 

Only  yield 

Honeyed  sweetness  to  your  lip, 
As  its  chalice  deep  you  sip, 

Kitty  Field! 

Well  I  knew  your  childhood's  wile, 

Kitty  Field, 
Brown  bright  eyes  with  tear  or  smile 

Unconcealed — 

Though  I  left  your  changeful  face 
And  your  dawn  of  maiden  grace 

Half  revealed. 

Be  the  same  dear  child  for  aye, 

Kitty  Field, 
Honest-hearted,  sad  or  gay, 

And  you'll  wield 
Such  a  scepter  as  a  queen 
Well  might  envy  you,  I  ween, 

Kitty  Field! 


49 


CONGRATULATION 

To  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Snouoden  on  wedding  anniversary. 


Not  to  the  fair  young  bride  who  trembling  stands 
Her  footsteps  touching  new  and  doubtful  lands, 
Whose  smiles  pathetic,  flitting  come  and  go, 
With  soft  eyes  tear-filled,  which  must  not  overflow, 
Her  tender  heart  all  loyalty  and  truth 
Leaving  the  sweet  allegiances  of  youth 
To  home  and  parents,  and  unquestioning 
Pledging  new  fealties  to  her  life's  new  king. 
Oh,  not  on  her  your  gratulations  pour 
And  tell  her  happy  fortunes  o'er  and  o'er — 
For  long  and  shadowy  stretch  the  coming  years ; 
Fickle  and  frail  is  man,  and  bitter  tears 
Are  often  woman's  portion  here,  where  hearts 
Estranged  grow,  or  death  their  strong  bond  parts. 
But  give  your  words  of  warmest  gladdest  cheer 
To  her  whose  wedded  bliss  has  grown  each  year 
Till  o'er  her  head  a  score  of  them  have  passed 
Each  brighter,  sweeter,  dearer  than  the  last; 
Whose  love  has  no  betrayal  found,  nor  trust 
Met  cold  response,  its  idol  turned  to  dust; 
Who  stands  serenely  at  her  husband's  side 
Dearer  to  him  than  when  a  white-robed  bride, 
Wearing  with  matron  grace  her  jewels  rare, 
Her  brave  bright  boys  and  daughters  good  and  fair; 
Ruling  a  sovereign  queen,  o'er  hearts  most  true, 
The  best  of  earth  all  hers, — and  Heaven  in  view! 


50 


BIRD    SONG 

To  Mr.  and  Mrs.  E.  V.  Rollins 
(Read  at  their  golden  wedding  day  reception) 


What  a  joyous  pair  of  robins 
Built  their  happy  nest  together 
In  the  fickle  April  weather 
In  the  sunshine  and  the  snow 
Long  ago! 

What  a  rapturous  pair  of  robins 
Saw  the  little  birdlings  come 
To  that  pleasant,  far-off  home 
With  the  breaking  of  a  dawn 
Later  on! 

What  a  busy  pair  of  robins 
Flew  about  in  sun  or  rain 
Just  to  rear  those  birdlings  twain 
And  their  every  need  to  fill, 
Later  still! 

What  a  serious  pair  of  robins 
Saw  those  nestlings  fly  away 
With  the  coming  of  a  day — 
One  that  cometh  soon  or  late, 
Sure  as  fate! 

But  did  ever  pair  of  robins 
Keep  their  happy  nest  together 
Fifty  years  of  changeful  weather- 
Tell  us,  you  who  know  bird  lore — 
These  before? 


51 


Such  a  wondrous  pair  of  robins! 
Dear  John  Burroughs,  did  you  ever? 
Olive  Miller,  sure  you  never 
Had  such  robins  cross  your  way. 
Did  you,  pray? 

Comes  their  answer:  "Keep  those  Robins; 
Never  such  were  seen  before. 
Keep  them!  Prize  them!  For  no  more 
Shall  such  birds  of  paradise 

Greet  your  eyes!" 


52 


Motherhood 


COMPENSATION 

In  sorrow  shall  thou  bring  forth  children. 

Genesis   III,  16. 
I. 

Dear  mother  of  the  race,  when  fell  thy  woe 

With  what  rich  counterpoise  of  blissful  fate 

Did  heaven  endow  thy  sorrowful  estate ! 

How  did  thy  bitter  cup  with  sweets  o'erflow, 

Thy  thorny  crown  with  priceless  jewels  glow! 

Out  of  thy  curse  was  born  the  love  most  great, 

The  matchless  love  which  naught  can  alienate, 

Nax,  which  'gainst  darkness  doth  most  brightly  show. 

Could  smile  of  angel-babe  such  love  e'er  gain 
As  the  sad  wail  that  shares  the  mother's  pain? 
And  ah,  what  pity  folds  the  baby  in 
Whose  stainless  soul  must  hide  some  germ  of  sin! 
Veiled  in  thick  cloud  still  dwells  the  Supreme  Good 
And  glory  crowns  the  cross  of  Motherhood. 

II. 

If  to  each  yearning  mother-heart  were  sent 

A  shining  angel  who  with  reverent  air, 

As  one  who  royal  gift  from  king  doth  bear, 

Gave  to  her  arms  a  little  Innocent 

On  whom  her  wealth  of  love  could  all  be  spent; 

Or  if,  as  the  quaint  legends  tell,  the  fair 

Dear  babes  were  brought  with  gentlest  care 

Beneath  their  great  soft  wings,  all  down-besprent, 

By  solemn  storks;  or  if  in  lily-boat 

The  seeker  found  each  pretty  waif  afloat, 

Such  treasure-trove  could  ne'er  the  rapture  bring 

Or  boundless  love,  born  of  deep  suffering. 

Of  long,  long  vigils,  prayer  and  tear  and  sigh 

And  travail  pain — life's  fiercest  agony. 


55 


MOTHERHOOD 

Across  a  troubled  sea,  far,  far  away, 

My  wistful  eyes  espy 
A  little  tremulous  sail,  at  set  of  day, 

Unfurled  against  the  sky. 

So  veiled  in  soft  obscure,  so  faint  to  see, 

Its  quiet  shimmering, 
Sometimes  it  seems  no  human  thing  to  me 

But  gleam  of  angel's  wing, 

And  yet  the  current  of  my  life  so  flows 

Toward  this  vision  fair, 
I  know,  I  know  for  me  it  pales  and  glows, 

It  cannot  fade  in  air. 

With  my  own  heartbeats  throbs  the  wavering  sail, 

My  sighs  the  pennons  move, 
And  hither  seeks  the  magnet  without  fail 

The  pole-star  of  my  love. 

What  precious  gifts  this  shadowy  barque  do  freight 

There  is  no  sign  to  show, 
What  frail,  small  mariner  there  enshrined  doth  wait 

No  mortal  yet  may  know. 

Still  on  the  waters  moves  the  Spirit  now 

As  'neath  the  olden  skies: 
Before  this  secret  of  the  Lord  I  bow 

With  veiled  and  reverent  eyes. 

And  vainly  does  my  restless  thought  essay 

To  haste  the  coming  sail; 
But  oh,  from  reef  and  wreck,  dear  Pilot,  may 

This  love  of  mine  avail! 


56 


So  will  I  keep  my  vigil  and  in  awe, 

Like  Mary,  dwell  apart; 
Unshod  toward  God's  mysteries  we  draw, 

My  brooding  mother-heart. 

Ah,  heavenly-sweet  thy  recompense  shall  be 
When,  every  fear  at  rest, 

The  little  barque  shall  lie — home,  home  from  sea- 
Safe  anchored  on  thy  breast. 


Dorset,  Vermont,  1869. 


From  "LULLABY" 

Like  a  lily  asleep  on  the  broad  Nile's  breast, 
A  cradle  of  rushes  swings  at  rest, 
And  the  poor  slave  mother  by  night  steals  nigh 
To  sing  little  Moses  his  lullaby. 
Lullaby,  darling,  lullaby. 

Adown  the  ages  soft  rolls  the  strain, 
Always  at  nightfall  the  same  refrain, 
Wherever  is  heard  the  baby's  cry 
There  rises  the  mother's  lullaby. 
Lullaby,  darling,  lullaby. 

Somewhere  the  first  star  glimmers  down, 
On  fair  little  Thekla  or  Hinda  brown, 
Ever  the  dusk  creeps  over  some  sky 
And  the  air  is  astir  with  lullaby. 
Lullaby,  darling,  lullaby. 


57 


THE     CONFIDANTE 


"Whom  shall  I  tell  my  dream?"  she  thought, 

As  fled  the  night — 
"My  dream  which  to  my  heart  hath  brought 

Such  deep  delight. 

"For  'tis  a  gleam  from  Heaven,  I  wis — 

No  dream  e'er  pressed 
With  passion  and  with  power  like  this 

Upon  my  breast. 

"And  ne'er  before  hath  midnight  spell 

Enthralled  me  so 
That  to  some  seeress  knew  I  well 

I  straight  must  go!" 

First  to  a  sleep-sealed  ear  leaned  she, 

Murmuring  above, 
Bee-like,  "Not  yet,  even  to  thee, 

My  dearest  love!" 

Then  kneeling,  whispered  rapt  and  slow 

Her  matin  prayer, 
But  found  no  words  wherewith  to  show 

Her  secret  there. 

Tell  Mary  Mother!  like  a  flame 

Sprang  up  the  thought — 
But  in  her  prayers  that  gentle  name 

Had  ne'er  been  wrought. 

So  forth  into  the  fragrant  morn 

Her  way  she  took 
Where  welcomes  breathed  from  flower  and  thorn, 

From  bird  and  brook. 


58 


Her  snowy  robe  did  her  enfold 

With  tender  care, 
And  round  her  beauteous  head  warm  rolled 

Her  golden  hair. 

"Now  I  shall  surely  know,"  saith  she, 

"By  sign  or  spell, 
Which  of  this  goodlie  companie 

'Twere  wise  to  tell." 

A  questioning  leaf  above  her  head 

Beckoned  to  her, 
"Tell  me!  Tell  me."  "Nay,  nay,"  she  said, 

"Sweet  whisperer." 

Her  garment's  hem,  a  flower,  dew-wet, 

Reached  up  to  kiss — 
"Nay,  little  maiden  violet, 

To  thee,  not  this!" 

And  then  she  came  to  where  a  stream 

Ran  murmuring  low: 
"I've  told  thee  much,"  she  said,  "my  dream 

Thou  mayst  not  know. 

"Yet  by  thy  luring  side  I'll  sit 

And  muse  awhile;" 
And  now  a  blush  her  face  uplit, 

And  now  a  mile. 

Then  sudden  on  her  charmed  ear 

A  bird  call  stole, 
A  note  inviting,  urgent,  clear, 

From  soul  to  soul. 

Swift  to  the  tryst  she  answering  flew — 

Lo!  on  her  nest 
A  brooding  dove  the  secret  knew 

All  unconfessed! 


59 


MADONNAS     OF     RAPHAEL 


How  dear  to  Raphael  the  Madonna  face! 

With  it  he  made  his  matchless  frescoes  glow, 

And  with  his  ardent  brush  taught  men  to  know 

Ineffable  beauty  and  immortal  grace. 
Who  were  thy  models,  Master?  In  what  place 

Dwelt  the  supernal  women  thou  dost  show? 

Couldst  thou  unaided  make  such  beauty  grow? 

Who  were  thy  Marys?    What  their  wondrous  race? 
Perchance  his  own  young  mother  o'er  him  bent, 

A  haloed  saint.    Or  his  Beloved  One 

Cradling  in  her  dear  arms  a  little  son, 
Moved  through  his  dreaming  and  the  vision  lent — 

Nay,  in  all  mothers  he  saw  Mary  mild, 

And  in  each  innocent  babe  a  Holy  Child. 

New  York   1910. 


ONCE 


Ah,  I  remember  how  with  shaded  light 

And  quiet  step  I  used  to  go  my  round 

Among  my  little  flock,  all  slumber-bound, 

And  grow  so  full  of  heart  at  the  sweet  sight 

I  scarce  could  pray,  "God,  keep  them  safe  to-night," 

Till  I  had  poured  my  thanks,  too  deep  for  sound  of  words. 

My  God,  Thou  knowest  I  never  found 
Heart  to  rejoice  because  my  path  was  bright 
While  other  mothers  bent  o'er  empty  beds 
And  mourned  for  just  such  little  golden  heads. 
But  filled  with  tender  ruth  for  their  great  woe 
I  cried,  "God  help  them."   Then  with  swift  o'erflow 
Of  shuddering  fear,  because  of  too  great  bliss, 
I  prayed,  "Let  this  cup  pass  me!    Spare  me  this!" 


60 


ANNIVERSARY 

(Anniversary  of  the  death  of  three  children  in 
the  fall  of  1 870) 

A  year  ago !    How  long  ago  it  seems — 
Light,  love  and  joy  were  ours  in  boundless  store. 
Then  Azrael  stretched  his  wing  across  our  sky, 
And  darkness  fell  upon  our  sunny  home. 
Quenched  was  our  little  lamp,  and  on  the  hearth 
Not  even  an  ember  glowed  to  cheer  the  gloom, 
But  patient  still  and  with  sad  hearts  of  trust 
We  held  each  other's  hands  and  said  through  tears, 
"It  is  the  Lord,  He  does  what  seems  Him  good — 
Joy  cometh  in  the  morning,  let  us  wait." 

But  when  the  morn  should  come — athwart  our  sky 
There  stretched  a  drear  eclipse  most  like  a  pall. 
Oh,  will  it  ever  lift?    Will  turn  of  sphere 
Or  swift-revolving  years  give  back  our  light 
Or  clear  our  heaven  of  that  penumbra  vast? 

It  fell  upon  us  in  the  autumn  time 
And  now  again  down  drop  the  dying  leaves. 
With  tender  ruth,  dear  friends  who  love  us  well, 
Reach  out  to  us  kind  hands  and  say  low  words, 
"God  pity  you,  in  this  heart-breaking  time!" 
"Heaven  help  you  through  these  anniversaries!" 

My  God!  My  God!  How  little  do  they  know 

There  are  no  times  and  seasons  to  our  grief, 

No  ebb  or  flow  to  this  great  ocean  flood, 

All  days  and  hours  are  our  memorial  time, 

Each  new  recurring  day  or  month  or  year 

Makes  but  another  day  or  month  or  year 

Of  sorrow,  not  revived  but  still  prolonged. 

Thou  only  knowest,  Thou  who  knowest  all — 

Through  the  thick  darkness  still  we  grope  for  Thee. 

O,  speak  to  us,  our  God,  for  we  are  blind 

By  reason  of  our  tears.    As  once  beside 

The  still,  dark  sepulchre  there  cried  a  voice, 


61 


Real,  audible,  "Behold  the  Lord  is  risen!"; 
So  send  some  pitying  angel,  not  too  bright 
For  our  poor  vision,  who  shall  say  to  us, 
"Your  dead  are  risen!    Lo  they  are  not  here!" 

Then  might  our  sky  be  radiant  once  more 

A  glorious  Easter  morn  should  end  our  night, 

And  all  our  days  of  earthly  pilgrimage 

Be  blessed  Easter  anniversaries. 


PARTED 

Unto  our  cottage  door  one  morn  there  came 

Two  wandering  cherubs  innocent  and  sweet, 

No  dust  of  travel  on  their  small  bare  feet, 

Spake  not  our  language,  answered  to  no  name. 

Straightway  we  bade  them  welcome,  took  them  in, 

Clothed  them  and  fed  them,  grudged  no  added  care, 

Nor  entertained  our  angels  unaware, 

But  sought  to  fold  them  safe  from  harm  and  sin. 

Each  was  most  lovely  in  his  own  dear  way, 

One  claimed  our  love  because  he  was  so  brave  and  bright, 

And  one  because  a  lingering  heavenly  light 

About  his  gentle  face  and  mien  did  stay. 

We  made  them  ours,  and  human-wise  began 

To  paint  their  blended  future  rainbow  hued, 

Two  pleasant  pathways  lying  side  by  side 

Nor  ever  once  diverging  as  they  ran. 

For  see,  we  said,  how  plainly  we  can  read 

The  good  Lord's  thought  for  these  His  little  ones, 

The  unity  which  through  their  being  runs, 

How  each  conforms  unto  the  other's  need. 


62 


One  in  life's  field  will  boldly  do  and  dare 

And  cheer  his  brother  with  his  dauntless  eyes, 

While  one  will  humblest  things  idealize 

And  fold  both  lives  in  atmosphere  of  prayer. 

Forth  fared  the  little  pilgrims  hand  in  hand, 

And  all  our  cherished  hopes  did  prove  most  true; 

The  pleasant  years  on  noiseless  pinions  flew, 

Each  blessed  the  other  even  as  we  had  planned. 

Then  fell  a  woful  darkness  on  our  day. 

The  gentle  boy  turned  heavenward  his  look, 

Spoke  mystic  words,  how  he  "must  cross  a  brook," 

Laid  his  frail  hands  in  ours,  then  went  away. 

Leaving  us,  ah  so  desolate! 

Our  joy  a  wreck,  our  hopes  dashed  down  to  earth, 

And  the  poor  child  so  favored  in  his  birth 

Now  doubly  wretched  in  his  lonely  fate. 

Father  in  heaven!     Hear  Thy  children's  moan, 

Open  our  grief-blind  eyes  that  we  may  see 

A  ministering  spirit  sent  by  Thee 

Wearing  our  darling's  shape  immortal  grown. 

Still  let  us  catch  a  gleam  of  his  dear  face 

Helpful  and  sweet,  a  heavenly  guiding  star 

Soft  shining  on  his  brother's  path  from  far 

And  making  sacred  each  familiar  place. 

The  way  is  short  though  seeming  long,  we  know 

A  thousand  years  are  in  Thy  sight  a  day, 

The  paths  will  only  part  a  little  way 

Even  if  to  life's  far  bound  this  child  should  go 

And  if  at  last,  a  worn  old  man,  should  come 

Unto  "the  little  brook"  so  long  before 

His  brother  crossed,  upon  the  farther  shore 

Will  not  two  rapturous  souls  seek  one  blest  home. 


63 


INDIAN    FUNERAL 

'On  a  low  pile  of  logs  lay  the  dead  form  of  Sally,  the  old  squaw.     Upon 

her  heart  was  placed  her  papoose  basket. " 
"Mountaineering  in  the  Sierra  Nevadas"  by  King 


Around  the  waiting  pile 
The  women  wail  and  moan, 

She  has  wandered  long  with  them, 
Now  she  goes  forth  alone. 

What  parting  gift  shall  they  place 
Within  her  clay-cold  hand? 

What  will  she  yet  hold  dear 
Afar  in  the  spirit-land? 

She  loved  her  slender  spear, 
Her  bow  so  lithe  and  strong 
And  her  toil's  rude  implements 
Which  had  served  her  well  and  long. 
Dear  to  her  woman's  heart 
Her  blanket's  gaudy  fold 
And  her  shining  ornaments 
Of  rude  barbaric  mould. 

But  are  these  the  treasures  heaped 
Above  the  pulseless  breast? 
For  these  do  the  dumb  lips  plead 
As  her  dearest  and  her  best? 
Nay,  holier  instincts  far 
Run  with  their  wild  swift  blood, 
And  their  untaught  souls  are  rich 
In  the  lore  of  motherhood. 


64 


On  her  quiet  heart  they  lay 
Her  papoose  basket  small — 
For  this  in  the  hour  supreme 
They  hear  the  still  voice  call, 
The  quaintly  beauteous  thing 
Her  wild  sweet  fancy  planned 
And  wrought  with  the  patient  skill 
Of  her  cunning  artist  hand! 

The  pale-face  mother  shapes 
Robes  for  her  darlings'  wear 
Broidering  her  tenderness 
In  the  garments  soft  and  fair; 
And  the  Indian  mother  weaves 
Her  papoose  basket  fine, 
Writing  love's  heiroglyph 
In  willowy  curve  and  line. 

It  has  held  her  dusky  babes 
As  she  roamed  over  vale  and  hill, 
Been  their  bough-hung  breeze-rocked  nest- 
To  her  it  holds  them  still. 
With  hers  shall  its  ashes  blend 
And  its  pale  shade  float  above, 
Shrine  of  her  dearest  joys, 
Type  of  her  deathless  love! 

Thou  hast  made  all  mother-hearts, 
Lord  of  the  living  and  dead, 
Thou  hast  made  them  of  one  blood 
Even  as  Thy  Word  hath  said : 
Deep  calleth  unto  deep 
In  the  soul's  unfathomed  sea — 
I  would  that  my  babies'  cradle 
Might  moulder  to  dust  with  me! 


Dorset,  Vt.,  1869. 


65 


MATER    DOLOROSA 


Because  of  little  low-laid  heads  all  crowned 

With  golden  hair, 
Forevermore  all  fair  young  brows  to  me 

A  halo  wear; 
I  kiss  them  reverently,  alas,  I  know 

The   pain   I   bear. 

Because  of  dear,  but  close-shut,  baby  eyes 

Of  heaven's  own  blue, 
All  little  eyes  do  fill  my  own  with  tears 

Whate'er  their  hue; 
And  lovingly  I  bend  their  innocent 

Clear  depths  to  view. 

Because  of  little  pallid  lips  which  once 

My  name  did  call, 
No  childish  voice  in  vain  appeal  upon 

My  ear  doth  fall; 
I  count  it  all  my  joy  their  joys  to  share 

And  sorrows  small. 

Because  of  little  dimpled  cherished  hands 

Which  folded  lie, 
All  little  hands  henceforth  to  me  do  have 

A  pleading  cry; 
I  clasp  them  as  they  were  small  wandering  birds 

Lured,  home  to  fly. 

Because  of  little  death-cold  feet  for  earth's 

Rough  roads  unmeet, 
I'd  journey  leagues  to  save  from  wrong  or  harm 

Such  little  feet, 
And  count  the  lowliest  service  done  for  them, 

Most  sacred-sweet. 


66 


FROM     "CHRISTUS     CONSOLATOR" 

(A  fragment) 


Once  I  clasped  my  little  baby 

In  its  mortal  agony; 
Saw  the  sweet  light  fading,  fading, 

From  bright  lip  and  azure  eye, 
Called  from  'mid  the  whelming  billows, 

"Father,  spare  my  little  child!" 
Only  heard  for  sign  or  answer 

Voice  of  winds  and  waters  wild, 

Only  held  the  waxen  casket 

Where  my  priceless  gem  once  shone, 
Veiled  my  face  before  its  whiteness, 

Uttered  neither  word  nor  moan: 
For  the  whiteness  awed  my  weakness, 

And  the  stillness  breathed  a  hymn 
Crying,  Holy,  Holy,  Holy! 

Like  the  song  of  cherubim. 


67 


EL    DIA    DE    LOS    CHIQUITOS 
(THE    DAY    OF    THE    CHILDREN) 

There  is  a  beautiful  tradition  in  Mexico  that  on  the  day 
preceding  All  Saints'  Day,  the  spirits  of  all  little  children 
who  have  died  return  to  visit  their  homes,  where  a  small 
feast  is  spread  for  them.  Tiny  candles  are  also  made  ready 
for  the  small  guests  to  use  in  the  evening  when  they  form 
a  procession  and  go  to  the  church  to  attend  the  Hallowe'en 
midnight  mass.  At  daybreak  they  return  to  Paradise. 

At  the  dawn  of  the  day,  each  her  bundle  of  linen  bearing 

On  her  motionless  head, 
The  Mexican  lavanderas  are  riverward  faring 

With  their  Juno-like  tread. 

Juanita  leads  the  procession,  the  beautiful  maiden, 

Yet  with  daughterly  care 

Guides  the  steps  of  her  grandmother  Petra,   who   loves, 
though  year-laden, 

Their  toiling  to  share. 

Josefa  and  Concha  and  Carmen  come  talking  together 
While,  clear  through  the  din, 

Rise  voices  which  cannot  but  sing  in  the  heavenly  weather 
That  folds  them  all  in. 

Beside  them  run  tireless  the  children,  now  flocking  with 
others, 

Now  darting  away, 

With  teasing  and  laughter  beguiling  the  hearts  of  their 
mothers 

To  join  in  their  play. 

From  his  safe  shoulder-perch  little  Pablo  is  shouting  with 
gladness, 

He  is  king  of  them  all; 

And  yet  there  is  one  whom  his  glee  cannot  win  from  her 
sadness, 

One  whose  tears  slowly  fall. 


Ramona  goes  lonely  and  grieving — ah,  silent  forever 

To  joy  and  to  pain, 
Will  slumber  her  own  little  Pablo,  awakening  never 

In  sunshine  or  rain. 

Only  a  week  since  he  left  her,  so  fresh  is  her  sorrow; 

Old  is  Petra's,  the  wise, 

And  she  comforting  speaks:  "Our  angels  will  come  back 
to-morrow. 

Like  birds  from  the  skies." 

To  her  words  swift  responded  the  thought  of  each  listening 
mother, 

And  all  the  day  long 

With  murmurous  tones,  mid  their  work,  they  talked  thus 
with  each  other 

In  their  speech,  which  is  song: — 


Josef a : 

"Sweetest  of  all  the  fiestas  is  this  of  the  children; 

When,   dropping   down   with   the   sunbeams   or   adrift   on 

zephyrs, 
The  dear  little  wandering  spirits  flit  silently  homeward." 

Maria : 

"I  fancy  to-day  they  are  busily  planning  their  journey — 

The  pretty,  the  venturesome  darlings!" 

Carmen  : 

"All  dimpling  and  smiling 

And  gay  at  their  daring,  they'll  slip  from  their  heavenly 
guardians 

And  leave  their  bright  comrades  the  cherubs  and  starry- 
eyed  seraphs, 

Who  never  knew  earth  and  its  mothers." 


69 


Ram  ona : 

"Ah,  sadly  they'll  miss  them 

Up  there  in  the  heavenly  places,  for  how  a  day  lengthens 
Lacking  the  joy  of  their  presence!" 

Manuela : 

"Not  ever  forgetting 
How  long  I  have  mourned  my  Benito !" 

All: 

"No  never  forgetting!" 

Mercedes : 

"Oh  my  chiquita  Abrama,  my  precious  Dario, 
In  a  moment  swept  from  me,  the  terrible  day  of  the  earth 
quake  !" 

Many  voices: 

"The  terrible  day  of  the  earthquake!    The  roar  and  the 
shrieking !" 

Concha : 

"And  the  time  of  the  famine  and  fever,  how  woful  the 

memory, 
When  in  every  house  there  was  wailing  for  children  who 

perished." 

Petra: 

"Let  us  speak  no  more  of  their  going,  it  but  brings  back  the 

anguish. 
Mother  of  angels!  Talk  now  of  their  coming  to-morrow." 

Josef a : 

"Crowding  in  at  the  doorways  and  hovering  over  the  tables 
That  are  spread  with  fruits  and  with  sweets  for  their  inno 
cent  feasting, 
Shall  we  not  almost  see  them,  our  beautiful  darlings?" 


70 


Juanita : 

"Surely  that  which  pleased  them  when  here  must  ever  de 
light  them; 

I  have  a  melon  zapote  to  offer  my  brother, 
Our  little  Luis  who  was  drowned  in  this  treacherous  river." 

Petra: 

"  Tis  the  fragrance  and  beauty  they  covet  and  chiefly  the 

loving, 
Which  incense-like  breathes  from  the  fond  preparation." 

Josef a : 

"Nor  will  we 

Forget  the  small  candles  they  need  for  the  evening  paseOc 
How  lovely  must  be  that  little  angelic  procession ! 
All  the  Saints  guard  them,  and  surely  a  blessing  must  follow 
As  they  wind  through  the  streets  and  around  the  plazas 

familiar 

'Till  they  hear  the  deep  bells  for  the  midnight  mass  out- 
pealing." 

Carmen : 

"Adown  the  still  aisles  how  sweet  to  know  they  are  passing 

With  their  folded  wings,  their  white  robes,  and  shy  glances 

down  dropping, 
And  each  with  his  mystic  invisible  taper  soft  glowing!" 

Manuela : 

"At  the  sacred  stations  and  pictures  they  linger  low-kneel 
ing, 

And  ever  the  Holy  Child  seems  longing  to  join  them, 
And  ever  the  Blessed  Mother  doth  yearn  to  embrace  them." 

Many  voices : 

"Oh  that  our  eyes  could  behold  them,  our  fond  arms  enfold 
them!" 

Ramona : 

"Alas,  alas,  they  are  not  for  our  mortal  embracing!" 


71 


Petra: 

"But  we  know  that  they  come  and  we  know  that  still  do  they 

love  us, 
And  love  the  poor  homes  of  Earth  once  blest  with  their 

presence." 

Ramona  (weeping) : 

"With  the  daybreak  they  leave  us." 

Petra: 

"Ah  yes,  but  enriched  by  their  coming; 
It  is  a  foretaste  of  heaven  this  day  with  our  angels. 
Hear  us,  sweet  Mary  Mother,  when  toiling  and  sorrow 
Are  ended  forever,  oh  then  let  us  go  to  our  children!" 

All: 

"Let  us  go  at  last  to  our  children! 

Amen,  ah,  amen!" 

Guanajuato,  Mexico,  1907. 


72 


Poems   of  Faith 


ULTIMA    THULE 

The  last  poem  written. 
(Dated  New  York,  Easter  1908) 

O  sacred  Past,  whose  sorrows  now  seem  vales 

Softened  by  mists  that  o'er  them  ebb  and  flow, 

Whose  joys  are  like  far  peaks  where  sunlight  fails 
Only  to  melt  in  evening's  alpine  glow. 

O  peaceful  Present!     Storm  and  stress  are  past. 

We  are  like  mariners  who  as  skies  grow  dim 
And  tides  set  shoreward,  turn  their  prows  at  last 

To  harbor  lights  on  the  horizon's  rim- 

O  blessed  Future!     Faith  and  Hope  are  ours, 

Around  us  earth  is  growing  green  with  spring, 

Birds  are  exultant,  wake  the  happy  flowers: 

Shall  there  not  be  for  us  new  bourgeoning. 


HYMN     OF     LABOR 

O  patient  Christ  of  Galilee, 

Our  yoke  by  Thee  was  borne, 

Thy  meek  brow  wet  with  toil  we  see, 
Thy  garments  poor  and  worn. 

'Neath  heavy  loads  Thy  form  is  bent, 
Thy  hands  are  hard  and  brown, 

And  at  day's  close  all  sad  and  spent 
Thy  gracious  head  bows  down. 

We  bless  Thee  that  each  toiling  life 
May  know  this  life  of  Thine, 

May  feel  through   weariness   and   strife 
Thy  company  divine. 

The  lowly  roof  of  Nazareth 

Becomes  our  own  rooftree, 

Our  burdens  fall  before  Thy  breath, 
Brother  of  Galilee! 


75 


MINISTERING    SPIRITS 

(Dated  1888) 


In  olden  days  it  brought  no  deep  surprise 

Nor  fright  nor  guilty  shame 
If  unannounced  adown  the  fresh  young  skies 

God's  glorious  angels  came. 

They  spake  with  men  as  loving  brothers  speak 

With  tenderest  look  and  tone, 
They  comforted  the  poor,  upheld  the  weak, 

Guided  the  wanderer  lone. 

So  sweet  it  seems  that  as  we  read  the  tale 

We  wonder,  are  we  then 
So  far  estranged,  or  doth  our  faith  so  fail? 

Care  they  no  more  for  men? 

Ah  no!    Above  the  world's  wild  sorrow  still 

Throbs  the  great  heart  of  love. 
God's  messengers  still  haste  to  do  His  will, 

Still  o'er  us  broods  the  I>ove. 

But  in  dear  human  form  the  angels  hide, 

They  use  familiar  speech, 
Their  voices  to  our  own  are  near  allied, 

Their  hands  to  ours  they  reach, 

Their  warm  tears  fall  with  ours  above  our  dead, 

They  whisper  words  of  cheer, 
And  all  that  shining  ones  e'er  did  or  said 

In  them  we  see  and  hear. 

O  friends  beloved !  I  lift  my  tear-stained  face, 

I  bless  you  in  my  prayer — 
How  could  I  ever  thus  have  entertained 

My  angels  unaware! 


76 


BIRTHDAY    GIFT 

I  saw  an  angel,  gracious-browed  and  calm, 

Float  down  from  the  blue  heaven, 
His  left  hand  bore  all  lovely  gifts  and  rare 

Which  unto  men  are  given. 

Beauty  and  strength  and  wealth  and  rank  and  fame 

Dropped  from  this  hand  like  rain, 
To  some  he  gave  unasked,  unsought,  unearned, 

To  some  gave  power  to  gain. 

But  in  his  strong  right  hand  he  bore  aloft 

Far  other  gifts  than  these: 
Poverty,  pain  and  loneliness  of  heart, 

Wan  death  and  dire  disease. 

Yet  with  a  brow  as  fair,  as  sweet  a  smile, 

These  right  hand  gifts  he  gave, 
With  love-lit  glance  to  one  sent  life-long  woe, 

To  one  an  early  grave. 

I  saw  him  bend  above  your  golden  head 

And  in  strange  wise  he  smiled, 
While  like  far  music  fell  the  heavenly  voice, 

"Your  birthday  gift,  dear  child! 

"And  all  because  you  are  so  dear,  so  dear, 

Your  soul  so  white  and  pure, 
I  lay  on  your  young  life  the  heritage 

Of  sorrow  to  endure. 

"Then  shall  your  broken  heart  feel  others'  woe, 

And  like  a  healing  balm 
Upon  all  stormy  griefs  your  sympathy 

Shall  lay  a  heavenly  calm. 

"And  so  your  life  shall  flow  with  blessedness, 

Your  heart  be  glad  with  love, 
Each  birthday  bring  you  deeper  depths  of  joy 

Till  you  are  born  above." 


77 


"UNTO    ME" 

I  bend  to  help  a  little  straying  child 

And  soothe  away  its  fears — 
When  lo!  the  Wondrous  Babe,  all  undefiled, 

Looks  at  me  through  its  tears. 

Beside  a  cot  I  kneel  with  pitying  eyes, 

A  dying  brow  I  fan — 
The  pallet  seems  a  cross  and  on  it  lies 

One  like  the  Son  of  Man. 

The  way  is  long,  and  when  I  pause  to  share 

My  cup,  my  crust  of  bread 
With  some  poor  wanderer — O  vision  rare! 

A  halo  crowns  his  head. 

O'er  sin's  dark  wave  there  comes  a  drowning  cry, 

The  woful  tide  I  stem 
And  grasp  for  one  who  sinks — the  Christ  is  nigh, 

I  touch  His  garment's  hem. 

O  Presence  ever  new  and  ever  dear, 

My  Master!  Can  it  be 
In  Thy  great  day  of  coming,  I  shall  hear: 

"Thou  did'st  it  unto  Me"? 


ALMOND    BLOSSOMS 

Flowers  are  poems.    On  their  fragrant  pages 
Pure  thoughts  are  traced  addressed  to  eyes  unsealed, 
Hid  from  the  wise  and  prudent  through  the  ages 
But  unto  babes  revealed. 

Lyric  and  ballad  waiting  the  musician 
Shine  in  these  leaflets  decked  in  blue  and  gold, 
Long  has  their  language  been  a  sweet  tradition 
In  folk-lore  sung  and  told. 


78 


Within  the  orange  blossom's  waxen  whiteness 
The  madrigal  of  youth  must  ever  glow 
But  from  the  almond's  tenderer,  clearer,  brightness 
The  song  of  age  doth  flow. 

Not  words  but  vision  :lo,  a  summit  hoary 
To  which  a  soul  hath  climbed  through  night  and  day, 
Whose  silver  sheen  foretells  a  crown  of  glory 
Which  shall  not  fade  away. 

0  blessed  heights!  O  surcease  of  life's  dreaming! 
Past  are  the  nights  from  which  one  weeping  wakes; 
Past  winter,  like  these  blooms  with  spring  foregleaming- 
The  Spring  eternal  breaks! 


LENTEN    PRAYER 

If  every  staining  thought 
Struck  out  with  staining  trace, 
If  like  a  leprous  spot 
It  shone  upon  the  face, 
If  sins  but  dreamed,  not  wrought, 
Should  mar  some  outward  grace: 
Ah,  who  could  tell  our  shame ! 
What  blanchings  of  wild  dread, 
What  shrinkings  of  the  frame, 
What  hidings  of  the  head — 
All  for  poor  human  blame 
What  longings  to  be  dead! 

O  Thou,  our  frailty's  stay, 
All,  all  is  known  to  Thee: 
Abased,  forespent,  we  pray 
Ourselves  no  more  to  see, 
But  oh,  that  Thy  Love  may 
Our  Shield  and  Refuge  be ! 


79 


RESURRECTION 


Upon  her  little  pallet,  cold  and  fair, 

The  Ruler's  darling  lay, 
More  still  than  the  white  lilies  near  her  there, 

More  white  and  still  than  they. 

The  wailers  o'er  and  o'er  bemoaned  her  fate, 

And  in  her  anguish  wild 
The  mother  sobbed:  "Her  father  brings  too  late 

The  Healer  to  our  child." 

Then  Christ  spake  there :  "She  sleeps,  she  is  not  dead." 
Hushed  were  the  clamorous  cries; 

And  taking  the  small  hand  He  gently  said, 
"Maiden,  I  bid  thee  rise." 

She  hears  His  voice  even  in  Paradise, 

The  starry  eyes  unclose, 
To  pallid  lip  and  cheek  the  warm  blood  flies, 

And  the  dear  child  arose! 

Raptured  they  clasped  her  and  adoring  fell 

Low  at  His  feet  to  stay, 
But  He,  with  grave  sweet  face  inscrutable, 

Turned  to  His  lonely  way. 

Upon  His  heart  still  lay  the  great  world's  pall, 

Still  weighed  its  grief  and  loss, 
While  near  He  saw  Gethsemane's  darkness  fall, 

And  shadowings  of  a  Cross. 

O  Love  divine,  as  by  our  graves  to-day 

Our  sorrowing  watch  we  keep, 
Speak  to  the  ear  of  faith  and  once  more  say : 

"They  are  not  dead,  they  sleep." 


80 


CHRIST     AND     WOMAN 

To  Harriet  Lewis  on  her  departure  as  a  missionary  to 
Canton,  China 

As  in  an  ancient  missal  every  leaf 

With  heavenly  hues  doth  glow, 
And  seraph  faces  shine  mid  halos,  wrought 

By  Fra  Angelico; 

The  women  of  the  Gospels,  high  and  pure, 

Yet  with  meek  downward  look, 
Divinely  sketched,  with  pearl-like  rays  illume 

The  pages  of  the  Book. 

They  throng  the  Master's  footsteps  day  by  day, 

They  share  His  grief  and  scorn, 
Deepen  the  shadows  of  the  Cross,  and  light 

The  Resurrection  Morn. 

No  tint  e'er  fades,  each  word  and  look  abides 

In  that  immortal  air; 
The  alabaster  box  forever  gleams 

Through  Mary's  golden  hair. 

And  down  the  ages  sacred  beacons  shine 

Lit  by  pure  woman  souls, 
Where  saints  and  martyrs  kneel  on  altar  stairs 

Crowned  with  bright  aureoles. 

Still  on  the  blessed  feet  they  daily  pour 

Their  priceless  hoards  of  love, 
And  the  sweet  incense  of  their  offered  lives 

Ascendeth  yet  above. 

While  from  the  cloud  the  Master's  voice  yet  speaks, 
"This  deed  which  she  hath  wrought 

Shall  still  be  told  in  memory  of  her 
Where'er  my  Truth  is  taught." 


81 


HOME-COMING 

(At  the  grave  of  Frederick  Field,  Dorset,  Vermont] 


Here  in  God's  acre,  room  for  this  dear  dust 

We  ask,  O  Mother  Earth; 
He  loved  you  well,  green  hills,  and  seeks  once  more 

The  land  that  gave  him  birth. 

Trees  that  he  planted,  wave  your  leafy  joy, 

And  fleck  with  shine  and  shade 
This  peaceful  home,  that  'neath  his  native  sky 

Our  reverent  hands  have  made. 

Dear  kindred  dead,  we  know  that  you  would  fain 
Swing  wide  each  green  tent  door, 

As  in  the  days  gone  by  with  unchanged  smile 
To  welcome  him  once  more. 

And  little  hands,  folded  so  long  ago, 

Dear  little  hands!  it  seems, 
When  he  lies  down  beside  you,  you  reach  out, 

As  if  in  pleasant  dreams. 

Dear  faithful  mountains,  still  keep  watch  and  ward 

Our  blessed  dead  above; 
Till  the  great  day  of  rising  they  are  left 

Unto  your  sheltering  love. 

O  Sharer  of  Earth's  graves!    Our  tear-blind  eyes 

We  lift  at  last  to  Thee; 
Write  Thou  Thy  resurrection  promise  here 

And  give  us  faith  to  see. 


82 


Photograph  by  Miss  Brophy 


EAST  DORSET,  VERMONT 


Occasional    Verse 


TO  STROTHER  BEESON  PURDY 

(On  receiving  in  Mexico  a  baby  relative's 
photograph,  unlabeled] 

Who  cometh  this  sunny  morn 

From  the  far  north-land  to  me? 
Oh  whom  from  the  treasured  past 

Shall  quickly  my  glad  eyes  see? 
Ah,  kinfolk  and  friends  beloved, 

What  memories  crowd  my  heart 
As  I  watch  for  the  old-time  face 

That  shall  bid  my  fond  tears  start! 

So  I  muse  as  with  eager  hands 

I  loose  the  wrappings  thta  hold 
The  mystery  hid  from  my  eyes, 

Till  gone  is  each  hindering  fold — 
And  lo,  'tis  a  baby's  face 

That  looks  forth  bravely  and  clear; 
Bold  little  rover  indeed 

To  seek  me  alone,  and  here! 

But  tell  me  your  name,  my  sweet, 

And  where  is  your  home,  I  pray? 
Comes  never  a  sign  to  reveal 

And  never  a  word  does  he  say! 
Yet  O,  let  me  kiss  you,  dear, 

Let  me  clasp  you  close  to  my  breast, 
Birdling  from  out  of  the  north 

So  far  from  your  cradle  nest. 

For  I'm  finding  the  old  home  look 

In  your  brow  and  your  eyes  of  blue; 
The  generations  agone 

Are  meeting  and  blending  in  you. 
Darling,  I  claim  you  as  mine, 

In  your  telltale  face  I  see 
You  are  mine  to  have  and  to  hold, 

Bright  flower  on  the  ancient  tree! 

Mexico  City,  November,  1906. 


87 


"WILLIAM     THE     CONQUEROR" 

To  William  Richards  Field,  in  his  seventh  year 

Frederick  is  little  but  troubles  are  tall; 
Mother's  gone  shopping  and  lost  is  the  ball, 
His  new  red  balloon  has  gone  up  out  of  sight, 
Kitty's  a  crosspatch  and  nothing  is  right. 

William  the  Conqueror!    Come  to  our  aid, 
Gentlest  of  heroes  but  never  afraid, 
Never  a  battle  too  doubtful  for  you, 
Never  a  tangle  you  cannot  undo. 

What's  a  big  brother  for  if  not  for  this? 
Drive  all  the  blues  away  just  with  a  kiss, 
Whisper  of  cookies,  of  frolic,  of  fun — 
WILLIAM  THE  CONQUEROR!  Victory's  won! 


WHAT     AILS     GRANDMA? 

To  Frederick  Field,  in  his  fifth  year. 

What  makes  Grandma  Field  so  gay, 
Smiling  to  herself  all  day 
In  a  sweet,  mysterious  way? 
Frederick  loves  her! 

What  does  Grandma  whisper  low 
To  the  winds  that  westward  blow 
(Just  as  if  the  winds  could  know!) 
Frederick  loves  her! 

Ah,  to-day  a  letter  came — 
If  she's  silly,  who's  to  blame? 
It  was  signed  with  Frederick's  name, 
Frederick  loves  her! 


88 


THE     IMPRISONED     SMILE 

To  the  portrait  bust  of  a  child* 

Here's  a  little  wandering  baby 
Out  of  dreamland  straying, 

One  of  Raphael's  cherubs  maybe 
Come  to  earth  amaying, 

With  the  Paradisic  radiance 

Round  his  head  still  playing. 

Young  bright  eye,  that  drops  its  curtain 

At  our  earnest  glances, 
Fair  broad  forehead,  with  a  certain 

Gleam  of  deeper  fancies, 
Dimpled  contours  where  are  written 

Childhood's  sweet  romances. 

Can  he  be  a  little  mortal 

To  be  praised  or  chidden, 

Slipping  from  some  human  portal 
After  fruit  forbidden, 

All  the  ancient  Eden  story 

In  his  small  heart  hidden? 

Vain  are  all  our  thoughts  and  guesses, 
Naught  can  coax  him  nearer, 

Nothing  that  veiled  eye  confesses 
Shows  the  mystery  clearer; 

Yet  his  very  silence  even 

Makes  him  dear  and  dearer. 

Ah,  the  art  that  thus  can  capture 

Childhood's  flying  hour 
And  imprison  its  swift  rapture, 

Hints  a  Higher  Power, 
Which  may  give  to  Earth's  brief  passion 

An  immortal  flower! 

^Sculptured  by  T.  B.  Jackson,  1886 


89 


TO     FLORA     BEAL 

Over  her  cradle  the  mother  said, 
"Now  what  shall  I  name  my  little  maid? 
Would  Lily  or  Rose  or  Violet, 
My  bud  of  promise  best  befit? 

"Nay,  I  will  name  her  for  all  the  flowers 
Of  wayside  or  woodland  or  garden  bowers, 
Then  she  may  bloom  at  her  own  sweet  will, 
'Flora'  will  match  with   my   blossom  still!" 

Oh  wise  young  mother  to  read  so  well 
The  secret  that  only  the  years  could  tell! 
For  lily  and  rose  and  violet 
In  her  gracious  womanhood  are  met. 


TO     MY     VALENTINE 

To  Dorothy  Gilbert,  Dorset,  Vermont 

Little  Dorothy  blithe  and  gay 
Sent  her  heart  to  me  to-day — 
Surely  she's  not  far  to  find, 
She'll  not  heartless  lag  behind. 

What  dear  little  girl  is  this 
Tripping  in  with  smile  and  kiss? 
Ah,  I  very  plainly  see, 
This  is  my  sweet  Dorothy  G. ! 

Is  it  a  dream?   Well  then  I'll  try 
Not  to  let  it  quickly  fly; 
Into  my  heart  to  stay  with  me 
Enter  little  Dorothy  G.! 

San   Diego,  California,  February  fourteenth,  1912. 


90 


VIDA'S     BAPTISM 

Like  dew  upon  a  flower  the  chrismal  drops 

Gleam  mid  her  golden  hair, 
Above  her  little  head  low  vows  are  breathed 

And  tender  words  of  prayer, 
While  o'er  and  o'er  we  say  her  precious  name, 

Her  name  so  sweet  and  rare, 
Vida,  beloved. 

Tears  steal  into  our  eyes  all  unaware, 
And  smiles  shine  through  our  tears, 

Fears  tremble  through  our  brightest  hopes  for  her, 
Hopes  waver  mid  our  fears — 

Our  little  stricken  lamb,  whose  early  cross 
A  thousand  fold  endears, 
Vida,  beloved. 

Peace  troubled  souls,  if  our  poor  human  love 

Deepens  through  sympathy, 
How  dearer  far  to  the  great  Heart  of  God 

His  wounded  ones  must  be! 
Accept  His  chrism  of  pain,  His  seal  of  love 

For  all  eternity, 

Vida,  beloved. 


TO     BERTHA     BRUCE 

(In  a  child's  "autograph  album") 

O  little  maiden  with  southern  tints 
In  your  starry  eyes  and  cheeks  aflame 
But  with  northern  hints  in  your  sturdy  ways 
And  your  grand  old  Saxon  name. 

Keep  your  heart  aglow  with  the  tropic  warmth 
That  mantles  your  lip  and  cheek; 
But  when  brain  and  soul  need  truth  and  force, 
Let  the  brave  old  Norse  blood  speak! 


91 


SANTA    MARIA 

To  Maria  Holly  on  her  betrothal 


In  far  off  lands  by  summer  seas, 
The  sweetest  tones  borne  on  the  breeze 
In  words  of  fervent  prayer  are  these: 
Santa   Maria! 

Whate'er  befalls  the  dark-eyed  race 
They  have  one  cry  for  help  and  grace, 
One  name  for  succor's  hiding-place: 
Santa   Maria ! 

And  strange  howe'er  may  seem  the  tale, 
I  know  a  green  New  England  dale 
Where  the  same  worship  doth  prevail — 
Santa   Maria! 

At  her  dear  shrine  bow  man  and  maid, 
The  children  seek  her  unafraid, 
The  lowliest  soul  is  undismayed — 
Santa   Maria! 

Nor  doth  the  church  disturb  her  reign, 
The  cause  to  every  eye  is  plain, 
Parson  and  deacons  swell  her  train — 
Santa   Maria ! 

Higher  than  pope's  or  bishop's  art, 
This  sweet  saint-making  of  the  heart — 
Ah  lonely  vale,  if  thou  depart, 
Santa  Maria! 


92 


TO  MABEL  FIELD  HASTINGS 

If  by  her  cradle  side  a  form  had  stood, 

Unearthly  fair  and  girt  with  heavenly  light 

Yet  not  too  blinding  for  my  raptured  sight, 

And  in  his  hands  all  gifts  our  thoughts  hold  good, 

Beauty  and  Strength  and  that  wide  Love  which  should 

Hold  hearts  in  sway,  Wit,  Grace,  Discernment  bright, 

With  Wisdom  all  high  power  to  use  aright — 

Bidding  me  choose  from  these,  in  gracious  mood: 

And  I  with  infinite  desire  aflame, 

Breathless  with  haste  yet  hesitant  with  fear, 

Had  reached  out  trembling  o'er  her  little  head, 

Dear  God!  not  even  my  love  had  made  such  claim 

On  Thy  best  gifts,  such  choice,  such  mingling  clear, 

As  Thy  good  Hand  upon  her  life  has  shed. 


TO     BETTY     TISDALE 

(In  a  child's  "autograph  album") 

I  knew  your  mother,  dear,  in  auld  lang  syne 
When  she  was  but  a  merry  little  maiden, 

And  now  her  youth  comes  back  to  me  in  thine 
And  I  forget  the  years  with  changes  laden. 

What  better  can  I  wish  for  you,  my  dear, 

Than  that  your  life,  like  hers,  may  be  made  beautiful 

With  love  and  home,  and  (maybe  you'll  smile  here) 
A  little  daughter  ever  dear  and  dutiful. 


93 


TO     LUCY     WEBB     HAYES 

(Read  at  the  reception  in  San  Jose  to  President  and  Mrs.  Rutherford 

Hayes,  under  the  auspices  of  the  W.  C.  T.  V.,  of  which  Mrs. 

Hayes  was  a  devoted  member. 

Far  off  where  the  dear  world  of  English  song 

Lies  in  the  shadow  of  its  dim  gray  dawning, 

On  her  white  palfrey  Lady  Una  moves, 

Pure,  solitary,  like  the  star  of  morning. 

Fair  type  of  truth  and  stainless  innocence 

And  singleness  of  purpose,  high  and  fearless; 

While  by  her  side  meek-tamed  by  her  soft  touch, 
A  mighty  lion  paces  slow  and  peerless. 

So  through  our  modern  times  our  Una  goes, 

White-panoplied  with  truth  and  courage  holy. 

Lays  her  fair  hand  upon  a  giant  wrong, 

And  at  her  gentle  feet  it  crouches  lowly. 

Well  may  they  paint  her  on  historic  walls 

*And  write  her  own  fit  name  to  tell  the  story; 

Lit  by  her  torch  a  brighter  dawn  doth  glow, 

And  the  long  years  shall  but  enhance  its  glory. 

Hail  to  her  footsteps  when  they  tread  our  ways! 

To  all  your  golden  fields  and  sunny  bowers 
Hasten,  young  Daughters  of  the  West,  and  bring 

Sweet  offerings  of  rarest  fruits  and  flowers! 

Rain  sunshine  on  her  gracious  head,  O  sky! 

With  banners  and  with  songs  let  childhood  meet  her, 
And  womanhood  go  forth  with  cordial  hands 

And  beaming  eyes  and  grateful  hearts  to  greet  her! 

Hark  while  we  pledge  her,  not  with  sparkling  wine, 
But  in  our  sweetest,  purest,  brightest  water: 

Long  life  and  all  good  gifts  of  God  be  hers, 

Our  Lady  of  the  Light,  our  Nation's  Daughter! 

*Lucy,  from  the  Latin  lux  (light). 

94 


IN    THE    HERBARIUM 

Oh  not  shut  in  by  walls  are  we, 

Nor  through  dim  windows  need  we  peer, 

The  dear  blue  sky  is  our  roof  tree, 

The  blessed  outdoor  world  is  here! 

We  breathe  the  fragrance  of  the  pine, 

The  odor  of  the  spruce  and  fir, 
While  flower  and  fern  and  trailing  vine 

With  wild-wood  dreams  our  senses  stir. 

Above  us  droop  the  clustering  cones, 

From  mountain  height  or  wave-beat  shore; 
Oh  hark,  what  songs  and  antiphones, 

Of  murmurous  woods  and  ocean's  roar! 

This  is  the  camp  fire's  cheerful  play; 

No  bonds  or  forms  shall  here  hold  good 
Where  gentle  outlaws  hold  a  sway 

As  free  as  that  of  Robin  Hood. 

Dear  Mother  Nature,  take  our  praise! 

So  fold  us  all  to  thy  great  heart 
That  all  our  evening  hearth  fire's  blaze 

May  seem,  like  this,  of  thee  a  part. 


95 


FORTY     YEARS 

To  Rev.  P.  S.  Pratt  on  the  fortieth  anniversary  of  his  pastorate 
in  Dorset,  Vermont. 

How  like  the  Holy  Book  the  record  reads! 

Our  hearts  must  needs  recall 
The  days  of  Moses  and  of  Joshua, 

Of  David  and  of  Saul. 

Before  us  Hermon  rears  his  snowy  head, 

Above  us  softly  shine 
Judean  skies,  and  bloom  around  our  feet 

Lilies  of  Palestine, 

As  that  dim,  old-time  boundary  is  placed 

Our  sea  of  life  beside, 
Marking  for  us  one  mighty  ebb  and  flow 

Of  its  slow  moving  tide. 

And  not  unmeet  to  us  it  seems  to  write 

Another,  later  name 
Among  the  saints  and  heroes  there  enrolled 

For  long  and  sacred  fame. 

Dear  Shepherd,  who  hast  led  us  forty  years 

With  love  that  never  fails, 
Through  calm  and  storm,  on  sunny  heights  or  down 

Through  shadow-haunted  vales. 

Thy  voice  has  fallen  in  blessing  on  our  babes, 

Our  joys  have  all  been  thine, 
And  to  our  sorrows  thou  hast  ministered 

With  comfort  all  divine. 

Oh,  linked  to  us  by  every  tender  tie, 

With  eyes  made  dim  by  tears, 
We  turn  the  pages  and  bless  God  for  thee 

Through  these  dear  forty  years. 


96 


"SANS    DIEU    RIEN" 

The  legend  on  the  Field  coat  of  arms 

Oh  wise  and  reverent  legend,  traced 
The  old  armorial  signs  among! 

Fit  motto  for  a  noble  line, 

"San  Dieu  rien!  Sans  Dieu  rien!" 

No  idle  boast  of  brave  deeds  done, 
No  vaunt  of  wealth  or  rank  or  fame, 

No  haughty  menace  to  a  foe, 
No  arrogant  imperial  claim. 

But  simply  true  and  simply  grand 
And  couched  in  language  briefly  strong, 

They  wrote  the  story  of  their  faith: 
"San  Dieu  rien!  Sans  Dieu  rien!" 

O  favored  ones  who  trace  your  blood 
Adown  this  good  ancestral  line, 

Claim  the  escutcheon's  pictured  scroll, 
Of  knightly  deeds  the  honored  sign. 

But  best  inheritance  of  all, 

That  strain  like  Eden's  morning  song 

Ah,  hand  it  down  from  sire  to  son: 
"San  Dieu  rien!  Sans  Dieu  rien!" 

The  crest  was  won  by  John   Field,   English  astronomer,  who  corrected 
the  calendar. 


97 


Humor 


AS     WE     RIDE 

Berkeley  College  Song 

Oh  be  gay,  my  boys,  be  gay 

As  we  ride,  as  we  ride! 
For  the  world's  a  jaunting-car 
And  we're  spinning  round  a  star, 
So  'tis  all  a  holiday, 
Let's  be  jolly  while  we  may 

As  we  ride,  as  we  ride !      >    , 

Not  a  carriage  shall  we  spy 

As  we  ride,  as  we  ride, 

That  can  match  with  this  of  ours 

All  bedecked  with  trees  and  flowers, 

Nor  can  any  pass  us  by 

With  a  scornful  lip  or  eye 

As  we  ride,  as  we  ride! 

If  we  seem  to  be  at  work 

As  we  ride,  as  we  ride, 
Tis  because  it's  better  so, 
For  the  way  is  long,  you  know, 
And  not  one  of  us  would  shirk 
Though  he's  lordly  as  a  Turk — 
As  we  ride,  as  we  ride! 


TREASURER'S     APPEAL 

When  I  was  young  my  teachers  said 

That  it  was  very  plain, 
Whate'er  I  lacked,  I  surely  had 

The  mathematic  brain. 


Mrs.  Field  served  as  treasurer  for  the  W.  C.  T.  U. 


101 


I  used  to  sit  upon  a  bench 

And  figure  out  my  sums 
At  close  of  school,  while  other  babes 

Searched  their  small  pails  for  crumbs. 

And  when  we  long  division  reached 
And  others  wept  full  sore, 

My  pencil  through  the  problems  flew 
And  then  I  asked  for  more! 

No  wonder  when  my  years  were  ripe 
And  Treasurers  were  sought, 

They  snapped  me  up.    Who  wouldn't  do 
Such  easy  work?  I  thought. 

How  little  dreamed  I  that  the  times 

So  very  hard  would  grow 
That  blood  from  turnips  could  be  made 

Much  easier  to  flow 

Than  dimes  from  purses !    Ah,  my  friends, 
'Twould  melt  a  heart  of  stone 

To  hear  the  tales  that  I  must  hear, 
Enforced  with  sigh  and  groan. 

I  didn't  once  suppose  that  dues 

Were  personal  to  me, 
And  that  I'd  have  to  ask  for  them 

With  meek  humility. 

Our  landlord  knows  no  day  but  one, 

The  salaries  fall  due — 
But  where,  oh  where,  to  get  the  cash 

I  wildly  ask  of  you! 

Would  that  the  Klondike  nearer  were, 

I'd  seize  a  pick  and  go, 
And  every  nugget  that  I  found 

Would  help  to  ease  my  woe. 


102 


Or  might  a  fortune  fall  to  me 

From  relatives  afar, 
I'd  never  mention  dues  again 

But  buy  our  stock  at  par. 

Oh  could  I  learn  the  secret  sought 

By  alchemists  of  old, 
Fd  turn  my  worn  out  pots  and  pans 

To  marketable  gold! 

An  awful  thought  my  soul  doth  seize — 

I'll  learn  to  silver  fuse, 
I'll  buy  some  stamps  and  dies  and  things 

That  counterfeiters  use! 

I  see  my  father's  frowning  ghost, 

I  see  a  grated  door! 
Oh,  friends,  make  haste  to  save  me,  ere 

I  fall  to  rise  no  more! 


THE  MONDAY  CLUB  OF  SAN  JOSE 

A  consolatory  prophecy 

They  were  a  band  of  gentle  dames 

With  noble  ends  in  view. 
Young?  Oh,  of  course,  though  each  did  own 

Some  spectacles,  'tis  true. 

They  give  one  dignity,  you  know, 

And  that  reflective  look 
The  scholar  has  whose  midnight  lamp 

Lights  his  beloved  book. 

If  Time  had  sprinkled  silver  hair 

Above  their  placid  brows, 
He'd  also  lightened  many  a  care 

Of  children  and  of  house. 


103 


So  now  the  intellectual  fires 

Which  years  had  smothered  down 
Rose  fresh  and  free,  their  spirits  burned 

For  deeds  of  high  renown. 

They  met  in  conclave  long  and  full, 
They  laid  their  plans  right  well, 

But  all  they  said  and  all  they  did 
Transcends  my  power  to  tell. 

Suffice  it — that  they  longed  to  know, 

And  ever  more  to  know, 
To  know  and  know  and  know  and  know, 

And  still  to  know  and  know! 

As  Emerson  advised,  they  hitched 

Their  wagon  to  a  star, 
And  where  that  star  careered  along 

They  followed  fast  and  far. 

They  quaffed  the  mighty  literatures 

Of  modern  days  and  old, 
Just  lived  on  Shakespeare's  tragedies 

And  Milton's  measures  bold. 

Great  Dante's  flights  they  reckless  took 
Down  spaces  vast  and  dim, 

Then  heard  old  Homer's  clanging  lyre 
And  breathless  followed  him. 

They  solved  the  problems  Goethe  raised, 
The  riddles  Browning  framed, 

And  tackled  other  mystic  bards 
Too  numerous  to  be  named. 

Then  History  their  zeal  invoked, 
They  knelt  at  Clio's  shrine, 

And  quite  like  bacchanals  they  drank 
Of  her  Pierian  wine. 


104 


Where  falls  the  shadow  of  the  Sphinx 
They  stirred  the  mummy  dust, 

And  peered  through  every  grated  door, 
Quite  undeterred  by  rust. 

They  camped  among  Assyrian  mounds, 
They  dwelt  in  Greece  and  Rome, 

In  England,  France  and  Germany 
They  made  themselves  at  home. 

Old  China  yielded  all  it  held 
Before  their  tireless  quest, 

Then  India  spread  its  hoary  scrolls, 
But  still  they  took  no  rest! 

Long  time  they  wrestled  with  the  Czars, 
And  then  wore  out  their  shoes 

(To  speak  in  figures)  traveling  round 
Among  the  ancient  Jews. 

At  last  they  struck  our  own  dear  land 
Like  locusts  from  the  east, 

With  appetites  omnivorous 

They  hied  them  to  their  feast. 

Of  the  poor  aborigines 

They  made  a  lengthy  meal, 

Then  sped  them  on  to  watch  intent 
Each  old  Discoverer's  keel. 

They  gloated  o'er  the  tales  that  grew 

Beneath  Colonial  skies; 
Our  statesmen,  scholars,  poets,  all 

They  viewed  with  critics'  eyes. 

No  institutions,  no  events, 

Escaped  their  watchful  ken — 

Such  zeal  methinks  would  take  the  kinks 
From  any  writer's  pen! 


105 


They  are  my  friends,  my  dearest  friends, 
These  women  sweet  and  strong, 

And  o'er  their  swift  advance  I  paused 
In  meditation  long. 

Greatly  I  feared  an  end  they'd  reach — 
Ah,  who  could  paint  their  woe 

If  all  the  fields  of  earth  were  gleaned 
And  naught  were  left  to  know! 

I  thought  of  Hegel  and  of  Kant, 
Of  Spencer — name  for  doubt — 

Would  they  attack  the  UNKNOWABLE, 
If  all  the  Known  gave  out? 

My  anxious  heart  this  burden  bore 

Till,  frankly  I  confess, 
It  haunted  me  by  night  and  day, 

A  boding  and  distress. 

And  then  by  chance  Du  Maurier  came 

My  guiding  light  to  be, 
I  read  his  "Martian"  and  in  sleep 

A  Martian  came  to  me! 

"O  friend,"  she  said,  "your  Earth  is  young, 
Its  power  not  half  revealed, 

Behold  in  days  at  hand  the  sky 

Its  treasured  hoards  will  yield. 

"Your  little  'phones  will,  wireless,  throb 

Along  the  ether's  flow, 
Alcyone  will  one  day  hear 

Your  far  and  faint  'Hello'! 

"And  every  glimmering  speck  that  shines 

Against  the  endless  blue 
Has  its  own  literature  and  art 

And  history,  like  you!" 


106 


I  woke,  I  smiled,  I  seemed  to  see 
The  Monday  Club  begin 

Its  studies  on  the  Martian  folk, 
As  nearest  us  of  kin. 

And  then  their  flying  steps  I  trace 
Where  Milky  Ways  do  flow — 

Oh  joy,  they'll  never  pause  nor  tire 
But  know,  and  know,  and  know! 


POLLY'S    THEOLOGY 

To  Polly  Carter 

Winsome  little  Polly  flits  about  the  dwelling, 

Hither,  thither  go  her  footsteps  small; 
Every  one  must  listen  to  stories  of  her  telling, 

Answers  to  her  questions  she  must  have  from  all. 

And  of  these  responses  to  her  brisk  demandings 
Nothing  seems  to  suit  the  little  maid  so  well 

As  an  "All  right,  Polly" — then  no  misunderstandings, 
Only  full  assurance  in  her  heart  can  dwell. 

When  this  eve  at  twilight  she  knelt  for  her  brief  praying, 
Like  a  little  cherub  gowned  in  softest  white, 

Folded  palms  and  eyes  close  shut  while  she  was  saying, 
"Bless  us  all,  dear  God,  and  keep  us  safe  to-night" — 

Suddenly  she  waited,  turned  her  pretty  head  as  trying 
Some  assent  from  heaven  at  least  to  faintly  hear, 

Then  gave  up  the  puzzle,  just  did  her  own  replying, 
Said  in  cheerful  accents,  "All  right,  Polly  dear!" 

O  our  little  darling,  your  sunny  wisdom  teach  us: 

What  though  clouds  and  silence  shut  out  the  far-off  sky 
Still  our  own  great  longings  drop  blessings  that  shall  reach 

us, 

Prayers  include  their  answers,  echoing  backward  to  our 
cry. 


107 


FEBRUARY     TWENTY-SECOND 

(For  celebration  of  the  birthday  of  the  missionary,  Mrs.  Mary  5.  Carey, 
February  twenty-second,  1882.) 

Fair  dawns  the  day  that  gave  to  us 

The  father  of  our  nation, 
And  full  of  patriotic  zeal 

We  join  the  celebration. 

The  air  is  rife  with  drum  and  fife, 

Out  float  the  starry  banners, 
Each  woman  dons  her  best  attire 

And  her  most  charming  manners. 

The  happy  children,  freed  from  school, 

Make  all  the  air  hilarious, 
While  old  and  young  and  rich  and  poor 

Rejoice  in  fashions  various. 

And  now  to  give  an  added  zest 

To  all  our  merrymaking, 
We  find  we  have  a  double  cause 

For  thus  our  pleasure  taking. 

To  save  its  ammunition  still 

The  Yankee  heart  is  willing — 
Who  has  not  heard  the  saw  about 

Two  birds  with  one  stone  killing? 

Lavish  is  nature;  little  George 

Was  doubtless  a  fine  baby, 
But  just  as  nice  ones  have  been  born 

Upon  his  birthday,  maybe! 

And  henceforth  on  this  festal  day 

Our  program  we  will  vary — 
Three  rousing  cheers  for  Washington, 

And  three  for  Mrs.  Carey! 


108 


What  though  our  gentle  heroine 
Has  set  no  trumpets  blowing; 

Stronger  than  fame  the  bands  which  she 
Round  human  hearts  is  throwing. 

Better  than  war  are  love  and  peace, 
And  heroes'  deeds  shine  faintly 

Beside  the  bloodless  victories 
Achieved  by  women  saintly. 

We  know  how  oft  her  name  is  breathed 
In  broken  prayer  and  lowly 

How  fondly  cling  to  her  the  lives 
She  leads  in  pathways  holy. 

And  far  away  in  alien  lands 

Sweet  Christian  homes  are  growing 
And  sending  out  their  shining  rays 

From  love-lights  she  set  glowing. 

There  poor  Sing  Ling  clasps  close  and  fond 

Her  darling  little  Mary, 
And  says  the  sweet  name  o'er  and  o'er 

Of  dear  godmother  Carey. 

The  wide  world  'round,  so  sailors  tell, 
Where'er  the  storm  cloud  thickens, 

There  safe  and  joyous  skim  and  whirl 
The  Mother  Carey  chickens. 

Thus  far  and  wide  this  mother  sends 
A  brood  like  sea  gulls  flying, 

They'll  sing  her  songs  in  storm  and  shine 
In  living  and  in  dying. 

Heaven  crown  the  loving  life  with  years 
To  match  its  generous  sweetness, 

And  send  to  more  historic  days 

Such  new  and  fine  completeness. 


109 


And  so  we  bring  our  birthday  gift, 
Its  value  slight  confessing, 

Save  that  its  worth  is  in  our  love, 
Its  sweetness  in  our  blessing. 


BIDDY     HIGHFLY 

(For  a  child's  recitation  at  a  church  banquet) 

I  had  a  little  hen 

And  she  had  a  cropple-crown, 
I  think  you  must  have  seen  her 

As  she  wandered  round  the  town. 

Such  a  cunning  little  hen 

With  feathers  on  each  leg, 

And  every  day  she  laid  me 
The  nicest  little  egg. 

I  called  her  Biddy  Highfly— 

Perhaps  you  think  that's  funny! 

I  sold  her  eggs  to  papa 

And  made  a  lot  of  money. 

I  bought  some  candy  with  it 

And  I  bought  my  doll  some  shoes, 
And  I  put  some  out  at  interest 

That  I  didn't  want  to  use. 

Now  if  you  have  a  hen 

And  through  winter  cannot  keep  her, 
The  next  best  thing  to  do 

I'm  sure  is  just  to  eat  her. 

So  we've  cooked  my  little  hen 

And  brought  her  here  to-night — 

I  love  to  share  with  others 
For  that  is  kind  and  right. 


110 


DEACON' S     BOY 

(A  parody) 

(The  author  was  only  ten  years  old  when  she  com 
posed  this  naughty  parody  on  Moore's  heroic  strains — the 
occasion  being  the  discomfiture  of  her  eldest  brother  under 
bungling  remodeling  of  an  old-fashioned  tailoress.) 

(The  minstrel  boy  to  the  war  is  gone.) 
The  deacon's  boy  to  the  church  is  gone. 

(In  the  ranks  of  death  you'll  find  him.) 
In  his  father's  pew  you'll  find  him. 

(His  father's  sword  he  hath  girded  on.) 
His  father's  coat  he  hath  girded  on. 

(And  his  wild  harp  slung  behind  him.) 
And  his  breeches  sag  down  behind  him ! 


INCONSTANCY 

( Berkeley  College  Song) 

Ah,  once  I  had  a  sweetheart  dear, 
Her  name  my  heart  is  on — 

But  here  I've  had  to  give  my  thoughts 
To  little  Polly— gon, 

Stiff  little  polygon! 

And  once  I  knew  a  maid  who  seemed 

Of  other  maids  the  gem — 
But  here  I  bow  my  head  in  awe 

To  stately  Theo — rem, 

Cold,  stately  theorem! 

And  once  the  power  of  Katie's  charms 
Made  evening  hours  to  flee — 

But  here  I  burn  the  midnight  oil 
With  Etta— mology, 
Old  etymology! 


111 


IMPROMPTU  on  receiving  a  gift  o/ca^e,  with  love  from 
Mrs.  L.  A.  Kelley,  San  Francisco,    1900 

Dear  Mrs.  Kelley, 

We  thank  you  really! 

In  our  finances 

(Whatever  mischances 

Befall  the  nation's) 

The  heart's  dear  coinage 
Shall  never  fail — 

And  oh  the  sweetness, 

The  full  completeness 

Of  your  bestowal, 

With  joy  we  hail! 

That  gift  was  ample, 
But  you  can  never 
(Or  "hardly  ever") 
Be  less  than  lavish 

To  those  you  love, 
And  so  you  added 
This  choice  confection 
Of  rich  perfection 

All  praise  above! 

Its  luscious  slices 
We'll  eat  like  mices 

From  day  to  day 
And  praise  your  cooking 
While — "How   good-looking 
And  nice  and  clever 
She  is!"  We'll  never 

Forget  to  say. 


112 


Madrigals 


ALOHA    NUI 

(Hawaiian  Salutation:    "Much  Love  to  You") 

Oh  sweet  our  English  greetings  are, 

Dear  love  of  mine!  Dear  love  of  mine! 

But  I  will  teach  one  sweeter  far 

To  those  bright  docile  lips  of  thine : 
"Aloha  Nui!",  "Love  to  you!" 

I  learned  it  in  a  happy  isle 

Afar  amid  the  tropic  seas, 

Whose  language  caught  its  tender  wile 
From  fervid  sun  and  balmy  breeze — 
"Aloha  Nui!",  "Love  to  you!" 

Too  fond  for  this  cold  speech  of  ours 

Which  shaped  itself  in  cloud  and  storm, 

In  lands  wrhere  grow  no  passion-flowers, 
And  warmest  love  is  not  too  warm — 
"Aloha  Nui!",  "Love  to  you!" 

But  thou  and  I,  dear,  thou  and  I, 

We  dwell  in  love's  enchanted  isle, 

A  cloudless  sun  is  in  our  sky 

And  starry  nights  above  us  smile — 
Aloha  Nui!,  Love  to  you! 


115 


A    MADRIGAL 

To  Maria  Middlebrook 

Oh,  who  can  with  my  love  compare? 

Such  gentle  grace 

Of  form  and  face — 
Yet  she  hath  silvery  shining  hair. 

Her  brow  is  written  o'er  and  o'er 

With  little  lines 

Of  quaint  designs 
That  speak  of  thoughts,  a  golden  store. 

And,  oh,  the  love-light  in  her  eyes 

That  sweetly  tells 

What  kindness  dwlels 
Deep  where  her  heart's  pure  fountain  lies ! 

Let  others  praise  the  young  and  fair, 

The  hair  of  gold, 

The  cheek's  soft  mould, 
Give  me  my  love  with  silver  hair! 


116 


Descent 
and  other  poems 


FROM    THE     FRENCH     (TRANSLATION) 

Fathoms  deep  beneath  the  ocean  yawn  the  craggy  sunless 

caves, 

Over  them  the  dreaming  sailor  lightly  tosses  on  the  waves; 
Far  above  us  heaven's  spaces  ever  deepen  to  our  view, 
And  the  worlds,  like  golden  galleons,  float  adown  the  mystic 

blue: 
But  more  deep  than  sea  abysses,  more  remote  than  vaulted 

skies, 
Glow  or  gloom  our  veiled  spirits,  part  of  God's  eternities. 


TO    FRANCES    WILLARD,    OUR 
COLOR-BEARER 

How  oft  have  men  faced  death  on  bloody  fields, 

Or  up  the  frowning  ramparts  heedless  flown, 

Or  led  a  hope  forlorn  in  fatal  charge, 

If  but  the  banner  that  they  loved  there  shone ! 

How  oft  has  the  poor  captive  taken  heart 
If  suddenly  upon  the  far-off  shore 

He  saw  the  flag  of  his  dear  native  land 

Its  gracious,  starry  folds  unfurl  once  more! 

No  wild  alarm  of  war  is  in  the  air, 

No  trumpet  calls  to  deeds  of  high  emprise; 
Yet  is  there  waged  a  battle  fierce  and  long, 

And  hearts  stand  still  for  news  of  victories. 

Still  are  there  strongholds  to  be  stormed,  and  oh, 
What  rescues  to  be  made  ere  day  shall  close ! 

Through  fen  and  forest,  up  the  rugged  steep, 
Oh,  follow,  follow  where  our  Leader  goes! 


119 


BY    AN    ANT-HILL 

Whither  away,  small  neighbor,    and  what    is  thy    frantic 

quest? 

Why  such  a  hurry  and  skurry  with  never  a  thought  of  rest? 
What  wild  compulsion  or  longing  possesses  thy  little  breast? 

Brief  is  thy  want,  mad  racer,  surely  thou  shalt  be  fed, 
Well  has  the  bountiful  mother  scattered  thy  wine  and  bread, 
Nor  should  winter  needs  oppress  thee,  hushed  in  thy  dream 
less  bed. 

Pray  why  dost  thou  build  thy  dwelling  this  crowded  way  be 
side, 

Where  any  footstep  may  crush  thee  or  bring  to  thee  ruin 
wide, 

Wrecking  the  secret  chambers  where  thy  helpless  brood 
doth  hide? 

And  why  dost  push    thy  comrade    so  fiercely  against  the 

wall? 
Why  dost  thou  plunder  and  murder  when  earth  has  room 

for  all? 
Why  lead  forth  armies  to  battle,  thou  Alexander  small? 

Never  a  glance  responsive,  thou  givest  no  word  or  sign, 
Nor  stayest  an  instant  thy  fury  for  any  pleading  of  mine — 
Yet  comes  to  my  soul  an  answer  graven  with  a  seal  divine. 

"Lo!  a  symbol  and  warning  set  here  that  the  runner  may 

read — 

Look  at  thyself,  O  Mortal,  such  is  thy  haste  and  greed, 
Such  is  thy  frenzied  grasping,  careless  of  others'  need! 

"Vainly  the  daily  miracle  passes  before  thine  eye, 
Vainly  the  ocean  thunders,  vainly  the  zephyrs  sigh, 
Vainly  above  thy  moiling  arches  the  starry  sky!" 


120 


Lookers  from  out  high  Heaven!  Are  we  such  before  your 

ken? 
Then  is  there  a  day  of  judgment  for  the  ant-hill  swarm  of 

men 
When  the  tread  of  God's  great  angels  shall  leave  Earth  bare 

again. 

WINTER    SUNSHINE 

In  San  Jose,  California 

Is  this  mid- winter?    In  my  pleasant  room 
I  throw  the  casement  wide.    The  generous  sun 
Gives  me  a  summer  greeting;  pours  his  sweet 
And  wholesome  rays  unstinted  down,  as  kings 
Of  old  tossed  gold  and  gems  to  kneeling  crowds. 
I  take  the  gift  with  joy.    Better  than  mines 
Of  Ophir  is  this  golden  shower. 

The  air: 

Is  like  new  wine.  O  rare  intoxicant! 
For  once  I  turn  abacchanal  and  quaff 
Deep  and  inspiring  draughts.  Nor  are  the  birds 

Gone  from  us  for  I  hear  the  merry  notes 
Of  little  sparrows  welcoming  the  sun 
With  happy  roundelays.  And  here  beside 

My  window  trellis,  see  the  climbing  rose, 
Undaunted  by  the  frost,  throws  fearless  out 
Its  long  pink  pennons  to  the  morning  breeze. 

O  heart  of  mine  be  glad !    Be  glad  indeed 

That  'neath  such  skies,  and  mid  such  scenes  as  these 

Your  lot  is  cast.    Mourn  not  for  your  lost  youth ; 

Banish  the  winter  of  your  discontent; 

Your  thoughts  and  words  and  deeds  should  match 

these  skies. 

Where'er  you  go,  whatever  your  task  to-day, 
Carry  God's  sunshine  in  your  face,  and  let 
Your  love  be  all-embracing  as  these  airs 
Of  heaven.    Be  of  good  cheer  as  is  yon  bird, 
And  like  this  sweet  brave  rose  you  too  shall  turn 
Your  life's  December  into  blossoming  May. 


121 


DESCENT 

Oh  not  the  warm  red  blood  makes  closest  tie 
Of  kinship.    Occult  cells  of  being  flow 

Along  its  pulsing  life-tides  and  thereby 
The  strong  sweet  bonds  of  family  upgrow. 
As  in  a  glass  face  answereth  to  face, 

And  side  by  side  in  peace  or  war,  the  clan 
Responds  to  roll-call,  and  for  love  of  race 
Would  proudly  die  to  the  last  dauntless  man- 
Yet,  ah  how  oft,  even  by  the  full  hearth-side 

There  dwells  a  stranger,  yet  among  them  born, 
Alien  in  spirit  though  by  blood  allied, 
Remote  and  solitary  and  forlorn! 

Not  thus,  not  thus  is  the  souPs  kinship  tried. 
On  what  strange  ichor  floats  its  germinal  seed! 

Full  well  it  knows  o'er  trackless  wastes  to  glide 
And  Time's  millenniums  hinder  not  its  speed. 

Far  off  it  finds  its  lodgement,  being  new, 

A  soul  to  welcome  it  with  joy  divine, 
And  springs  to  life  unharmed,  immortal,  true 
To  its  great  source — the  sovran  heavenly  line! 

The  young  seer  lifts  his  head  and  reverent  knows 
His  father's  house :  ah,  with  what  rapture  wild 
He  cries,  "I  am  of  David's  seed!"  or,  "In  me  flows 
Great  Plato's  blood!"  or,  "I  am  Shakespeare's  child!" 


122 


Contents 


Biography 


Portrait 1C 

Biographical    Sketches    of    Mary    Field - 11-22 

By    Maria    Holly    Sheldon,    Lucy   Washburn,    Mabel    Field    Hastings, 
and   John    E.    Richards 

Portrait    Bust    15 

Letters 23-27 

Autobiographical    Sketch    28 

Biographical    Sketch    of    Frederick    Field 33 

By    Mabel    Field    Hastings 


Poems 

Wedded   Love 


To    Frederick    Field    45 

"Sweetheart  from   this   most  fateful    hour" 46 

Golden    Wedding    46 

Beneath   the    Lamp 47 

Comrade     Mary 48 

Kitty    Field 49 

Congratulations 50 

Bird    Song    51 


Motherhood 


Sonnet:    Compensation    55 

I.     "Dear  mother  of  the   race" 
II.     "If    to    each    yearning    mother-heart." 

Motherhood      56 

From    "Lul  laby"    57 

The    Confidante    58 

Madonnas   of    Raphael    60 

Once    60 

Anniversary    61 

Parted  62 


Indian     Funeral    „ 64 

Mater    Dolorosa    66 

From   "Christus   Consolator"   67 

El    Dia   De    Los  Chiquitos  68 


Poems  of  Faith 


Ultima    Thule 75 

Hymn   of   Labor  75 

M inistering    Spirits   76 

Birthday    Gift    77 

"Unto    Me"    , 78 

Almond    Blossoms   ,. 78 

Lenten    Prayer   ,. 79 

Resurrection 80 

Christ    and    Woman    81 

Home-coming   (At  the  grave  of  Frederick  Field) 82 


Occasional   Verse 


To   Strother    Beeson    Purdy   87 

To   William    Richards   Field   88 

To   Frederick  Field,  Jr 89 

The  Imprisoned  Smile  (To  the  portrait  bust  of  a  child.) 89 

To    Flora    Beal    : , 90 

To    My    Valentine 90 

Vida's    Baptism    , 91 

To    Bertha    Bruce    •• 91 

Santa     Maria    , 92 

To   Mabel    Field    Hastings  93 

To   Betty  Tisdale 93 

To    Lucy    Webb    Hayes    94 

In   the    Herbarium 95 

Forty    Years , 96 

Sans   Dieu    Rien   97 

Humor 

As   We    Ride   - 101 

Treasurer's    Appeal    101 

The    Monday  Club   of   San   Jose   103 

Polly's    Theology    107 

February    Twenty-second    108 

Biddy     Highfly    110 

Deacon's    Boy    1 1 1 

I nconstancy    

Impromptu     - 112 


Madrigals 


Aloha    N ui    -j 1 5 

To    Maria    Middlebrook    "    ng 

Descent  and  Other  Poems 

From   the    French    (translation)    119 

To    Frances    Willard    H9 

By    an    Ant-Hill    '    i2n 

Winter    Sunshine    121 

Descent    "    122 


VD  03125 


909270 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


